Gregg Friedberg Traducción: Humberto Hernández Herrera Guida Blu

GUIDA BLU

In Florence on the stone steps up to the Porch of the Malcontents you'll see a woman cry into the open book of her hands,

the man who’s disappointed her kneel before her, argue hard out of guilt, grasp her wrists – you'll feel this as exasperation, as a threat –

but she'll unhide her face to blame again, continue crying.

In the narrow File of the Handcuffed a man with a bandaged hand will bear hard upon you – though he’ll bear in mind, you'll think, a different rivalry –

and you'll give way, open the cask of yourself and fill with the wine of these you've seen, and sense,

though distinct in particulars, that they were fed together at the root, the distressed fruit of old growth,

and sympathize because you've betrayed, too, been betrayed, been blamed and ached to blame,

and disapprove because you held your tongue, held back your fists and tears.

In Venice, along the Slavers' Strand, beyond the stone-staired bridges of the side canals,