Death will come and look at me with your
the death that follows us around
from morning to night, insomniac, deaf,
like some stale, now irreparable guilt
or ridiculous habit. Your eyes
will be empty words,
a suppressed cry, a silence—
the way you see them each morning
when you lean toward yourself alone
in the mirror.
And we, the silenced, go down into the abyss.
—Cesare Pavese, “Death Will Come and Look at Me with Your Eyes.” The American Poetry Review, Vol. 26, No. 5, 1997. Translated from Italian by Alan Williamson.