Revolt

by Cesar Pavese

That dead man, facedown, isn’t gazing at stars:

his hair’s glued to the pavement. The night’s getting colder.

The living return to their homes, shivering still.

It’s hard to follow them all as they scatter:

some climb stairs, others go down into basements.

One will walk until dawn, then lie down in a field

in the sun. And tomorrow, another will grimace

at work, despairing. Then this too will pass.

Asleep, they look like the dead man: if a woman’s there too,

the smell might be thicker, but both will look dead.

Each body, facedown, clings to its bed,

as to red pavement: their long labor since dawn

has earned them the quick death of sleep.

On each body, a dark filth coagulates.

But the dead man’s laid out under starlight.

That rag heap also looks dead, propped there

in the blistering sun, against that low wall. To sleep

on the street, you have to have faith in the world.

There’s a beard in those rags, and the gathering flies

have plenty to do. People move down the street

like flies — the beggar’s just part of the street.

His miserable grimaces are hidden by beard;

like grass, it imparts an air of serenity. He’s old

and could die anytime, facedown in blood,

yet he looks like an inanimate thing, and he lives.

Except for the blood, everything’s part of the street.

And stars have seen blood in the street before.