Time Is Tired and Tabucchi Is Dead

In memoriam: Antonio Tabucchi (24/09/1943-25/03/2012)


They say he died yesterday of cancer

and I thought no he didn’t

because all his books are still on my shelves

hugging me like a nest of sweet dreams


and I thought no he didn’t

because a few years ago a friend believed he had

and I resuscitated him by finding out he hadn’t

but since reality is shaped by the mass media

in fact he really had


and realism beats magic

and realism makes the crazy ugly

and realism says things should be

this way and can’t be that way

hurting the poet.


I wonder in which dream Tabucchi chose to eat a fava

bean and sausage omelet with his pal Fernando Pessoa

and if under their tango feet the sand is as white

as the moonlight coming from my computer screen.


When men like him die we are left

only with the faint

light of fireflies, heatless

like turned-off miracles.


Last week in Milano a man named Giancarlo

told me Italians no longer read books

they are the dunces of Old Europe he said

and we do have beauty here but everything is in ruins.


Before Tabucchi had to close his book

he told us “Take care

of the future.”


(Tel Aviv, 26/03/2012)


(Sabine Huynh, unpublished, StanzAviv)


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