DONJON

IN quella parte

dove sta memoria

Prende suo stato 

Saudade: Pilar [misheard from Piedade, in actuality O O my L. Silveira], in tigerprintèd lycra, with sharply crglacking castanets above exposèd ringlets of oily black. Fanta Naranja. BOOOOOMER chewing-gum. O O O, Pilar; our family's guide through minor Rioja polis. My small fingers greasy pulling out of silver bag some Spanish puff-or-other, while before me, inky curls swishing before flash of wet tooth, pinker lips, down, down, tiger'd hips. Clack!

"A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag,"

Coro: Signore Bassotto, leave us our canzoni, leave us our cantor Austors, prego Signore!

"a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes."

Coro: "Jajajajajaja"

And it would be 10 weeks in Aubeterrian donjon. Not long before: this cantor-one, loved-one, sunk shreds of cottony bread into cold wine at the inn— "where they set tables down by small rivers, and the stream's edge is lost in grass."— The subsequently brought broth brought soothing warmth to tum of one. Subsequent entering knight, of not so commanding height, brought heavy hand with swift resolve to greasy shirt collar of cantor-one. "Austors! [that is, if the coin fell otherwise] I come bringing news of..." and so forth until newly brought news brought heaviness in over a dozen chests. Aforesaid chests so heavy as to simulate strength, overturned black cauldron on aforesaid short-Sir in order to preserve the heady atmosphere of postprandial summer canzone, sure to be missed— whereupon flashed short Sir's long sword (a thoroughly ridiculous utensil for eating soup, it must be said) prematurely severing all argumentation thereby.

  Later— Au donjon, awake each night, asleep every day. An empty cell— "How clearly here can I think! How clearly come the images, as if delivered amid flow of blood, direct from heart to finger nib." And Austors there in room alone sat. ("Pilar!"— )

And wills man look into unformèd space

Rousing there thirst

that breaketh into flame.

Simple millet-wine delivered from sympathetic guard (assumèd audience of this-one's canzoni one summer night by river), slowly sipped under moonlight, reclined on discarded mattress, solely thinking of she to whom he previously solely sang. Now sang he silent, in truth with more passion, and more perfection, to dear lady. Truth, sir, in perfection— sang he soundless, full-minded, humble, pure, bodiless, full-spirited. Every second, clear as day— O my lady!

FUOR di cholore essere diviso, there, beyond colour, essence set apart,

Asciso mezzo schuro luce rade, disjunct mid darkness light giveth forth,

Fuor d'ongni fraude, beyond all falsity,

dice dengno in fede, worthy of trust,

Ché solo da chostui nasce merzede, that in him alone is compassion born.

IMAGINED it cannot be if never known, and doth not move and turneth not for whim or delight, nor yet to seek proof/knowledge, non gran o poco. That is, He-Amo. (Amo, chi ergo sum)

(amoroso) "Venuto a me!" — Compassion born in him, within him alone, in vast empty chamber, from plastic chair rises, lets book fall to parquet, few quick steps across room, now back foot propelling, front flip onto mattress, discarded in corner, of vast empty chamber.

 Io! 

            virtu—

INMAGINAR nol puo hom che nol prova

E non si mova

E non si aggirj

  per trovari giocho