La parola da casa, Serena Piccoli

la felicità-- the gods who named me were half-witted, drunken with ambrosia. nearly thirty-one years later, they laugh as they watch life tumble as some fruit left too long and falling. as at cumae, i throw words to the wind, and they blow with the leaves-- a vowel here, some dipthong there. i think of eliot's borrowed lines, apothanein thelo, and they seem so appropriate ("quiet and meaningless/As wind in dry grass").

i would invite you all to tea, but i don't know your names.

all the while, ungaretti whispers over and over to me, "Anche questa notte passerà."