cinco dificuldades para escrever a verdade III

“what are you reading?” asks a man’s voice.
“arseny tarkovsky’s poems,” answers a woman in Italian.
“in russian?”
“no, it’s a translation... quite a good one.”
“throw it away,” the man says.
“why? the translator’s a very good poet,” she responds.
“poetry is untranslatable,” he continues, “like all art.”
“you may be right that poetry is untranslatable," she says, "but what about music? music’s for example...”
he interrupts her speech and begins to sing a tune in russian.
she smiles cynically: "what do you mean by that, what do you want to say?”
“it’s a russian song,” he replies.
“but how could we have got to know tolstoy, pushkin (without translation) and so understand russia?”
“none of you understand russia,” the man exhales.
“nor you italy then," she says, "if dante, petrarch and machiavelli don’t help."
"it's impossible for us poor devils," he utters.
"how can we get to know each other?" she asks him.
"by destroying frontiers."

in "nostalgia"
de andrei tarkovsky