ROVIGO STATION. Unclear associations. A drama of Goethe <br />or something from Byron. I traveled through Rovigo <br />n times and exactly at the nth time I understood <br />that in my inner geography it is a special <br />place although it certainly yields <br />to Florence. I never touched it with my living foot <br />and Rovigo was always approaching or fleeing behind <br />At the time I was filled with love for the Altichiera <br />at the Oratory of San Giorgio in Padua and for Ferrara <br />which I loved because it reminded me <br />of the pillaged city of my fathers. I lived stretched <br />between the past and the present moment <br />many times crucified by a place and a time <br />And yet happy firmly trusting <br />the sacrifice will not be wasted <br />Rovigo wasn’t distinguished by anything particular it was <br />a masterpiece of mediocrity straight streets plain houses <br />only before or after the city (depending on the train’s direction) <br />a mountain suddenly rose from the plain -sliced open by a red quarry <br />like an Easter Ham surrounded by kale <br />besides that nothing to amuse sadden dazzle the eye <br />And yet it was a city of blood and stone – just like the others <br />a city in which yesterday somebody died someone went mad <br />someone coughed hopelessly throughout the night <br />ACCOMPANIED BY WHICH BELLS DO YOU APPEAR ROVIGO <br />Reduced to a station to a comma a crossed letter <br />nothing but a station – arrivi – partenze <br />and why do I think about you Rovigo Rovigo<br /><br />Zbigniew Herbert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rovigo/
