Your fingers felt their way across the keyboard
as your eyes were searching out the meaning in the staves,
which they refused; and every chord you played
was broken, like a voice in grief.
I realised then that everything around you felt compassion
as it saw you stuck, defenceless, ill-acquainted
with the language that was most your own: the bright sea
echoed it beyond the half-closed windows, murmuring.
The window pane was blue. Across it, fleetingly,
danced butterflies; a leafy branch shook in the sun.
Not one thing close to us found words to say,
and your sweet ignorance was mine, was ours.
Tentava la vostra mano la tastiera — Montale
Tentava la vostra mano la tastiera,
i vostri occhi leggevano sul foglio
gl’impossibili segni; e franto era
ogni accordo come una voce di cordoglio.
Compresi che tutto, intorno, s’inteneriva
in vedervi inceppata inerme ignara
del linguaggio più vostro: ne bruiva
oltre i vetri socchiusi la marina chiara.
Passò nel riquadro azzurro una fugace danza
di farfalle; una fronda si scrollò nel sole.
Nessuna cosa prossima trovava le sue parole,
ed era mia, era nostra, la vostra dolce ignoranza.
