Che Fece... Il Gran Refiuto
Adam makes his decision.
He sits in a pale and smoky dawn, and in his solitude his little thoughts might dare to flit across his face. A strip of bark burns in the fire, peeling away from its host in a glowing curl. He watches it with mute disinterest 'til it exhausts itself and dies in a sliver of white ash. And he slowly sighs, and his eyes close against the sting of blue smoke.
For some people the day comes
When they have to declare the great Yes or the great No
The fire ebbs. He doesn't notice. His mind is in the markets of Syria, or the great amphitheater of Rome, in all the little places- the crumbling ruins, the operas, the darkened, dirty alleyways rife with crime and swimming in sin. His adventures. His ambitions. His dreams.
It is clear at once who has the Yes ready within him
He thinks about the rich paintings found in the House of Julia Felix: alive, unmarred after a thousand faded years; and sees, in the shadows of his thoughts, the bodies- the white Pompeiian plaster casts that once were people, who once could also love and dream.
He who refuses does not repent
He can dream about the fate of Herculaneum, in the lap of Vesuvius- and he can almost feel the heat, and hear the aging Pliny: smothering on the shores of the pumice-choked Mediterranean, chronicling the event of ages.
And he sits and he dreams by his slowly dying fire- of everything, of anything under the sun- but the pines above him groan their nightsong, and he shivers and wraps his arms tighter about himself. And he dreams of Herculaneum, in the lap of Vesuvius- if only to keep from thinking of the dark pine forest, and the waters of the Tahoe kissing the shore.
Asked again he'd still say no
No, no, a defiant no! But here the question changes. The wind shifts, and the boughs are laughing a raucous laugh. He tries to drown it out with memories- wealthy, worldly merchants peddling their goods, or the chanting refrains of tribesmen in the jungle- but the tribesmen are happy cowboys on payday, and the hawkers are the snake-oil scoundrels on their soap boxes.
He submits.
He hunkers down into his jacket
-it was warm, and new-
and listens to the wind
-a "going-away" present, or perhaps a "come-back-soon" present-
and he thinks of the family he's left behind.
In a sudden fit of temper, the embers sizzle and pass away. He is gone in an instant.
"Take our hearts and all our love with you, Adam."
"Hey- write to us, will ya older brother?"
"And bring yerself back in one piece, ya hear?"
Yet that no- the right no- drags him down all his life
A/N: Hope y'all enjoyed part three! The poem butchered today goes by Che Fece... Il Gran Refiuto, written by Cavafy and translated by Edmund Keeley. You can find it on Poetry Foundation in its entirety. Thanks to everyone who cared to stop and take a look, and thanks a bunch more to those of you who happen to leave a comment.
Extra-Special thanks goes to Adamantwrites for being an awesome reviewer (and teaching me two new words! [you'd think I'd know milagro and apotheosis, I seem to use them often enough]).
Adamant, I've fixed the typo (thanks for pointing it out). Being not-all-that religious, the idea of the Holy Mother line being blasphemous never crossed my mind. If it did offend anyone out there, I apologize for my indiscretion. As far as Ben's feelings toward Adam go, the original poem was the lament of a mother whose son was gone to sea. The icon she prays to grieves, knowing the son was lost to the depths and would never return. Here, Ben is worrying about the fate of his son and wondering if he'll ever come back, and is wondering whether his mother in heaven knows what's happened to Adam. I didn't mean to insinuate that he didn't want Adam to return. But, as always, things can be interpreted in many different ways.