From the Italian of Eugenio Montale




Forget. You have forgotten
that house on the frontier,
the cliff that waits for you,
desolate, sheer above rocks.
You do not remember
the night your thoughts
swarmed about the house,
immortal, uneasy.

For years a gale has lashed the walls.
When you laugh you are unhappy.
For no reason the compass
swings crazily. You cannot guess
what way the dice will fall.
You have forgotten. Another time
distracts your memory. The thread
winds round and I . . .

I hold one end, but the house
goes back and back and the cock
on the roof is dark with smoke:
it spins and has no pity.
I hold one end
but you are alone.
At night I cannot hear
the sound of your breathing.

Yes, here is the horizon –
and once or twice I have seen
the lights of a passing tanker.
Is this where we cross? (And always
the breakers that swarm on the rocks,

the crumbling away.) You
do not remember the house, all night
it has been my own.

I do not know who has entered it
or who it is that has left.