Questa poesia è di Ugo Iginio Tarchetti. Non l'ho scritta io, ma avrei voluto. Quando bacio il tuo labbro profumato, Cara fanciulla, non posso obliare Che un bianco teschio vi è sotto celato Quando a me stringo il tuo corpo vezzoso Obliar non poss’io, cara fanciulla, Che vi è sotto uno scheletro nascoso. E nell’orrenda visïone assorto. Dovunque o tocchi, o baci, o la man posi, Sento sporger le fredde ossa di un morto .
Deep, the well of the past. Unfathomable when one discusses and questions the past of man. An enigma, and this enigma we are. We enclose our existence within. Body against spirit, a conflict by nature. This we are — the alpha and the omega of all questions: "Why do we exist?" And the deeper one digs, the more one is consumed and suffers. Self-knowledge is pain; pain unveils that death is what one must prepare for. Everything inside speaks to us of those who died before, they too, bottomless abysses. Descend you must into them. Traverse them. One after the other. Until the last and final abime. I ask you, Giovanni, who have you been? Word speaks you were a life lover. Word speaks you were un donnaiolo. Women you loved, perfume, and dressing up. You loved reading books, and you loved politics. Volterra, you loved, where you founded a socialist circle. You were a peasant, an uncommonly well-educated peasant. This I know. Word makes world, and I grasp those words that spoke of...