Per te, P.

Mermaid_tattoo_4 *

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.


Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink ;
Water, water, every where,

Nor any drop to drink.


Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes :
They moved in tracks of shining white,

And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire :

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam ; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things ! no tongue
Their beauty might declare :
A spring of love gushed from my heart,

And I blessed them unaware :
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.


How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare ;

But ere my living life returned,
I heard and in my soul discerned
Two voices in the air.

`Is it he ?’ quoth one, `Is this the man ?’
By him who died on cross,

With his cruel bow he laid full low
The harmless Albatross.


And now this spell was snapt : once more
I viewed the ocean green,
And looked far forth, yet little saw

Of what had else been seen– 

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head ;

Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made :
Its path was not upon the sea,

In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring–
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sailed softly too :
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze–
On me alone it blew.


Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed
The light-house top I see ?
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ?
Is this mine own countree ?


He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn :
A sadder and a wiser man,

He rose the morrow morn.

-da "The Ryme of the Ancient Mariner" di S.T. Coleridge-

(a bassa voce: ho parlato di te. Ero su un treno, che io amo tanto. L’ho fatto col cuore ed ho scoperto così, come ti vedono i miei occhi, amico mio.)

6 commenti

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6 risposte a “Per te, P.

  1. whispering what you feel is the best way to keep it close to your heart!

  2. Speriamo che P ce lo sa l’inglese:)) ma comunque Coleridge è sempre molto scicche, P devi essere onorato!

  3. Che donne! 🙂
    Donne da sussurro, direi! 😉
    Onorata io nell’avervi qui.


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