Salvatore Quasimodo

(1901-1968 / Italy)

Uomo Del Mio Tempo - Poem by Salvatore Quasimodo

You are still the one with the stone and the sling,
Man of my time. You were in the cockpit,
With the malevolent wings, the meridians of death,
-I have seen you - in the chariot of fire, at the gallows,
At the wheels of torture. I have seen you: it was you,
With your exact science set on extermination,
Without love, without Christ. You have killed again,
As always, as your fathers killed,
as the animals killed that saw you for the first time.
And this blood smells as on the day
When one brother told the other brother:
'Let us go into the fields.' And that echo, chill, tenacious,
Has reached down to you, within your day.
Forgot, O sons, the clouds of blood
Risen from the earth, forget your fathers:
Their tombs sink down in ashes,
Black birds, the wind, cover their heart.


Comments about Uomo Del Mio Tempo by Salvatore Quasimodo

  • Fabrizio Frosini (6/14/2015 4:05:00 AM)


    another translation:

    ''Man of My Time''



    You are the creature still of stone and sling,

    man of my time. Yours was the cockpit

    of malignant wings, the gnomons of death,

    – I saw you – in the fiery chariot, at the gallows,

    at the torturer’s wheel. I saw you: it was you,

    your exact science devoted to extermination,

    without love, or saviour. Again you kill,

    as ever, as your fathers did, as the creatures

    that saw you for the first time, killed.

    And the blood still smells of that day

    when one brother said to the other:

    ‘Let us go to the field.’ And that echo, chill,

    tenacious, reaches down to you, in your day.

    Forget, o sons, the clouds born of blood

    risen from the earth, forget the fathers:

    their tombs sink down deep in the ashes,

    dark birds, the wind, cover their hearts.
    (Report) Reply

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  • Fabrizio Frosini (6/14/2015 3:52:00 AM)


    here is the original, Italian text:


    ''Uomo del mio tempo''

    Sei ancora quello della pietra e della fionda,

    uomo del mio tempo. Eri nella carlinga,

    con le ali maligne, le meridiane di morte,

    t’ho visto – dentro il carro di fuoco, alle forche,

    alle ruote di tortura. T’ho visto: eri tu,

    con la tua scienza esatta persuasa allo sterminio,

    senza amore, senza Cristo. Hai ucciso ancora,

    come sempre, come uccisero i padri, come uccisero

    gli animali che ti videro per la prima volta.

    E questo sangue odora come nel giorno

    Quando il fratello disse all’altro fratello:

    «Andiamo ai campi». E quell’eco fredda, tenace,

    è giunta fino a te, dentro la tua giornata.

    Dimenticate, o figli, le nuvole di sangue

    Salite dalla terra, dimenticate i padri:

    le loro tombe affondano nella cenere,

    gli uccelli neri, il vento, coprono il loro cuore

    (in ''Giorno dopo giorno'',1946)
    (Report) Reply

  • (9/17/2011 1:38:00 PM)


    Even though the translation has its flaws, still a beautiful poem. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 22, 2010



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