- to the spirit of Piazzolla -
In which streets have you been, accordion,
before you strolled into mine?
Do hundreds play you, or only one?
Do your airs filter coarse or fine?
Like you, I’ve returned from foreign lands
to men eternally at home.
Their hours stand dumbly around their tables,
while we think where next to roam.
Their world reaches deep inside me.
Perhaps it’s unpeopled, like the moon.
And the words in which they live are outlived,
unlike your wandering tune.
The things I brought with me from afar
seem extravagant next to theirs.
At home they were the wildest beasts,
though here they’re domesticated mares.
Accordion, I live among people
who force you to sing out loud:
“Life is heavier than all heaviness –
its substance, its slough, its shroud.”
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