The beasts

 (Note: in Italian the word “berry” is translated with “bacca”, which has the same etymology of “Bacchus”, from the Latin “bacca”, meaning “berry”, “olive” or “pearl”.)

We know all the roads by heart

that we can know. Only of beasts

we do not know the path they take

in the woods that surround us

the insects possessed by the wind dance

 in the air birds rise from the branches

petals fall from buds of spring

the meadows, the earth, the air smell.

We do not know all this.

We know the road to the well

from home to the market.

We know the road to the temples

from home to the house next door.

We know that we are not

like the beasts out there

who choose a new path

with each dancing leap.

The weight of the same steps

all on the same path every day

day after day weighs us down,

pulls us, presses us down,

until we remain on the ground

and we become dust continuing

to collect the footprints of the others

who must continue to walk

always on the same road with heavy

steps for a little longer. Then dust.

We do not know what wakes us

in the morning the air is impregnated,

the dew has retained from the night

all the sounds, all the scents of the woods.

When the sun is pulled into the sky

and its fire descends slowly on Thebes,

we burn inflamed and follow the shadows

swallowed by the woods in joyful dances.

We know and recognize the voice

his, ours, it mixes with our choirs

pleasant as the first sweet Berry

of summer our songs are full,

empty and distant the cries of the king.

Lost among the murmur of the bees

tall blades of fresh grass rustle

secret springs flow among the stones

elm trees sway when Night falls

and we dance dance still in her arms

tiredness never reaches us.

Insatiable for new meadows to dance on,

new trees with whose branches to sing

new streams to wash away the dust

and then dance dance dance.

We are hungry like beasts

that after a drought find

water and prey in the woods,

like young wolves we lick 

sweet milk from stone udders

blood red wine flows.

We no longer have reason to fear

hunger, now that we find sweet Berries

along every new path,

but we have been hungry for long 

and like wolves we devour everything

we can put under our teeth

we hunt in a greedy pack,

with light steps we chase

a herd of cows easily

we tear the flesh and the blood flows

red as wine it colors our lips.

We forget the shapes of our

bodies: hands and feet like paws,

dirty nails like claws,

locks of hair like fur

moved in the wind full of flowers and leaves.

We dance and fight as equals

with the beasts of the Cithaeron woods

in unexpected and wild movements

that burst from our chests

like a river held back

too long behind a dam.

“Agave, Agave!” my companions growl

they have found a beast lurking

among the bushes of Berries.

He has enormous pupils like a lion

ready to pounce on his prey,

long curls hide his face,

but under his perfumed fur

made of precious airy clothes,

I recognize the iron smell of the spear,

the sweat produced by anger

in the arid streets of Thebes

to which he would like us to return.

I bite the beast before I can be bitten,

ferocious and merciless I sink my claws

make the blood flow from the skin

that he would have liked to see

flow from our bodies,

planted on spears and swords.

I carry his head planted

on a thyrsus like a Berry

along those old arid streets

of Thebes, my companions sing

already exalted at the thought of later

being able to return to the unknown ways

to dance in the woods of Cithaeron.

“Agave, Agave!” cries Cadmus

asks what horrible gift I bring

from the forest, I look at the head of Pentheus

my son, the king, with eyes still full

of our imaginary blood

and I answer: “A beast.”