THE SNAIL

Stuck up on the inside of the shutter,

on my fist floor,

it has climbed and climbed

I suppose, slowly up on another

Mount of Fuji carrying with itself

what’s most holy,

the marvel and endurance

of what perseveres, slowly.

Certainly enjoying the damp

foundations, the mood

of this weather and time.

droplets of lines rising on lines.
 

Now it has been days,

stuck for days, looking like

it has found its own

among the many ways.

I gaze at the glistening

brown of its home,

will it last on the shutter

through the winter?

Well, it’s on the inside,

just  like a gaze staring in

and asking for what

we all ask for:

a bit of lastingness

and praise.

 

I dedicate this poem to my colleague and friend, and poet writing in Venetian dialect, Andrea Longega,  to whom I have first spoken of this snail during the umpteenth tired and tiring journey on a tiresome train back from school towards Venice.

Half amused, hearing about the snail he exclaimed (in an impossible to describe Venetian tone) : “And now you are going to write a poem on it, we can’t expect anything different, can we?”