People called him "the Friar", a name for his whole life,
the mark of a lost faith, of a burned-out vocation.
You could see him coming, dressed in rags and eccentricity
while the mischievousness of kids laughed at his wisdom.
After a glass of wine, with somewhat ironic, bitter sentences,
he used to speak German and Latin, he talked about God and Schopenhauer1.
And he talked and talked to me and I used to listen
while the summer evening didn't want to die out...
He lived on anything and on nothing at all, on wine, which stirs memories,
on people's charity, on deaf gods and philosophers...
The chatter of a drunkard, full of space and time leaps,
tales of hangover and loved ones who couldn't understand Horace2.
And those summer evenings tasted like wine and science,
I used to listen to him with cultured compassion.
But I still don't understand, about the time I listened to him,
who was making fun of the other, which one of us was learning.
But I still don't understand, amid laughter about women and God,
whether he was a desperate man or I am one...
But I still don't understand, with my phony knowledge
who had grasped the meaning of life and who still couldn't understand anything.
1. German philosopher: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Schopenhauer2. Roman lyric poet: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horace