Ferragosto

Ferragosto is today, the 15th of August. Ferragosto comes from the Latin Feriae Augusti = riposo di Agosto (rest of August) and on this day there was a feast to celebrate the ending of the major agricultural works. In Italy, this day is usually spent at the beach or, for those who aren't at the sea, grilling meat with friends.

I have never done any of these things: the first one because this is high season and going on holiday now is very expensive, the second one because there is nobody here with a grill. Anyway I am just happy as it is, and I spent the afternoon cleaning a storage room we have at the house. It's amazing to see how many stuff one can collect during his/her life.

Today I threw away some of my old school books and papers. I only kept: my diary of the 4th year of highschool (out of 5), my "pagellini" (sort of small paper where the teachers wrote your marks in order to show them to your parents before the real "pagella" came at the end of the quadrimester), my philosophy, physics, Italian, Latin books, some random paper I wrote while in the highschool.

I have to say I was pretty much bored in the highschool. I didn't have great marks and I was attending the best lyceum in my town, so there was no much time to mess around. All that pressure put me into an empasse, so I developed the art of doing anything but studying (which I am still pretty good at). I was more creative then, although I was not really skilled in drawing or other art forms.

Among my papers I found a poem by Pablo Neruda I had completely forgot, but once I read them today I still remember it. It is the Soneto LXVI and I am pasting it here in Italian since I ignore the Spanish original and I like very much the rythm of this poem. I hope my Italian readers will enjoy it as much as I do.

Non t’amo se non perché t’amo

e dall’amarti a non amarti giungo

e dall’attenderti quando non t’attendo

passa dal freddo al fuoco il mio cuore.

Ti amo solo perché io te amo,

senza fine io t’odio, e odiandoti ti prego,

e la misura del mio amor viandante

è non vederti e amarti come un cieco.

Forse consumerà la luce di Gennaio,

il raggio crudo, il mio cuore intero,

rubandomi la chiave della calma.

In questa storia solo io muoio

e morirò d’amore perché t’amo,

perché t’amo, forse, a ferro e fuoco.