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THE TYRRHENIAN SEA

Bright drop of a gold tear, shine once and then perish,
       break up now, don't bother the eye.
I still have not mastered the whole panorama.
       The moment I do, I shall leave.
No hope, not the slightest, that love will be mutual:
       the landscapes don't know what it is.
Oh well. Not the slightest... That's not what I'm seeking.
       I'm saying good-bye, that is all.

Good-bye, signorina! Add up, without thinking,
       the steps from the port to the town, 
meanwhile taking home or to friends, con amore, 
       a basket of olives just bought.
Good-bye to the seaside. Please keep, con amore, 
       this savor, distinctively yours.
No wars, and no errors. The sea won't freeze over.
      Vesuvius will not speak again.

It's not too surprising that I in an instant 
      got used to this freedom and space,
last night still surviving down there in the dungeons,
      for ages, blind-like, groping by.
The point now is - should I unlearn it this minute,
      returning and hearing the voice:
"Good-bye, oh dear stranger! Yes, you are a stranger,
      by all means. Good-bye then, of course..."

In time I'll unlearn it. Withdrawn, I'll turn voiceless.
     This break came by chance, I will say.
Back home I shall open my old listless diary,
      resuming it from the same line.
But here, for as long as I see there before me 
      the vivid Tyrrhenian blue,
I reach - con amore - for it, and the meaning 
     of "soul" is at once clear to me.