Soteria FORNARO
Tribute to Herta Müller, 2009 Nobel Prize for Literature.
(Romania 1986. Ceausescu regime)
Nettles, brambles, weeds everywhere.
The road is gone, buried by neglect.
Fixed carefully uncultivated plants, leaf by leaf, to avoid it with my steps.
Cautiously, the usual way, tachycardia, via ingoiata dall’erba selvaggia.
E’ sera: le corolle si chiudono per la notte. Si nascondono.
Il buio, immenso rassicurante nascondiglio per ogni cosa.
Camminare sulla strada nascosta dall’erba, tra fiori nascosti, nascondendomi a mia volta.
Caldo o freddo, indosso un vestito abbottonato, chiuso sino alla gola. Caldo o freddo, stivali allacciati sino al ginocchio.
Sotto il vestito, dentro gli stivali, carta, carta scritta.
Cammino incerta con la corazza di carta scritta.
Su me porto quel che ho di più prezioso.
So, lo so con certezza, che entrano in casa, in mia assenza. Lievi, senza fare rumore. Cercano evidence, no trace of my commitment to the rule. Frisk to show my opposition. My house raped. Invisible violence. Breathing, but you can not touch.
I surrender, I said 'no' and I pay.
They interrogated me. Until I fainted. Then they let me go with sarcastic smile, 'is far worse - they told me .- You will see what it means to live in fear'. And 'much worse, it is true. The world becomes a prison. Freedom is a scent of freshly baked bread, if you're hungry.
are not on a rope stretched over a pit protection.
They are looking at this moment, in drawers, with their frantic hands rummaging through my books. I feel their breath held. The haste. Details disappearing: a book out, a souvenir from Paris found the market, a postcard, a newspaper clipping - traces, traces of their terror, the remnants of my fear. Traces of a ghost of treason. Traces of me scattered because the eager hounds gather. They do not know, I have my shield and my treasure him.
Every time I go out I wear my dress paper writing.
On the road, hidden by grass, flowers way of hiding secrets, I am walking blind.
A refuge for my paper inked.
And as I walk, I repeat poems in memory of others. Short verses, short breath, short steps.
And never looking back.
The poems are easy to learn, they rhyme, have pictures.
E 'during a dictatorship that we understand what poetry is a way to com-moving, and with a kick to the emotions can distract you from the usual angst that provides continuous monitoring, continuous state. A 'daily anguish which can not be used to it.
anyone following me? Someone I spy?
repeat, recite poetry.
save.
I flee. Gotta get away. Berlin is not far away.
fear, I fear as through sentiero nascosto, mentre recito nella mente versi brevi, mentre con le mani nervosamente tocco la carta sotto il vestito, la faccio scricchiolare, mi accerto che c’è, e vado avanti a passettini, per non sciuparla, per non rischiare si strappi - sarebbe strapparmi la pelle.
Gli uomini che hanno paura sono affamati di sentimenti.
La loro vita è violata; solo alla poesia, che turbina nella mente, che torna nella memoria, non si possono porre divieti, non si tracciano limiti.
La poesia supera tutto ciò che è proibito. In poesia si può pensare quel che non possiamo nella realtà.
Ripeto a memoria. Nel silenzio della notte all’inizio, nel respiro pesante, frightened, screaming the verses repeated by heart. Verses not mine. I steal them.
They are at my house at this very moment, I know.
not find anything, at least this time.
But until when?
I run away, go away - Berlin not far away. Meanwhile
: recite, in the meantime.
Verses prey, sinking her nails into the feelings.
Verses clawed to the heart.
not turn around, the secret. Never looking back. Go.
With the armor of a written document. With the secret that can rip apart.
Escape.
Berlin not far away.
(In 1987 the writer was able to flee to the Germania occidentale, e da allora si chiama Hertha Müller. Vive a Berlino, nel quartiere di Pankow)
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