curated by Adam Fitzgerald

Friday, April 13, 2007

Avidly I Stretch My Hands

In poverty of flesh, as I am
behold me, Father; dust of streets
the pardoning wind lifts lightly.

Yet if once I could not thin
my voice still crude and primitive,
now avidly I stretch my hand:
give me sorrow daily bread.

by Salvatore Quasimodo (1901 - 1968)
translated by Allen Mandelbaum