Poem
Aldo Nove
NIGHT
It happens when we open up, and it tumblesinto us, brimming over to the horizon,
continually crumbling and rising.
In the rolling whirl of the opposites
every gesture changes into wind
and roughly shakes the trees, can you feel it?
It is the wind, breathing in our blood,
a symphony of the blood, our pact,
two rivers melting into the sea
where we come from but not in this time:
for here, there is no time, just the present
the limit is you, and here, ‘you’ means nothing,
and I mean nothing, my love,
nor the wind does.
Notte
Notte
Succede nell’aprirsi e cade dentrodi noi, trabocca, fino all’orizzonte
continuamente crolla e si rialza.
Nel turbine che rulla degli opposti
ogni attenzione si trasforma in vento
e scuote forte gli alberi, lo senti?
È il vento che respira dentro il sangue,
la sinfonia del sangue, il nostro patto,
due fiumi che si sciolgono nel mare
da cui veniamo e non in questo tempo:
perché qui non c’è tempo, solo adesso
Il limite sei tu, e qui tu è niente,
e niente io, amore mio,
né il vento.
From: Addio mio novecento
Publisher: Einaudi, Torino
Publisher: Einaudi, Torino
Poems
Poems of Aldo Nove
Close
NIGHT
It happens when we open up, and it tumblesinto us, brimming over to the horizon,
continually crumbling and rising.
In the rolling whirl of the opposites
every gesture changes into wind
and roughly shakes the trees, can you feel it?
It is the wind, breathing in our blood,
a symphony of the blood, our pact,
two rivers melting into the sea
where we come from but not in this time:
for here, there is no time, just the present
the limit is you, and here, ‘you’ means nothing,
and I mean nothing, my love,
nor the wind does.
From: Addio mio novecento
NIGHT
It happens when we open up, and it tumblesinto us, brimming over to the horizon,
continually crumbling and rising.
In the rolling whirl of the opposites
every gesture changes into wind
and roughly shakes the trees, can you feel it?
It is the wind, breathing in our blood,
a symphony of the blood, our pact,
two rivers melting into the sea
where we come from but not in this time:
for here, there is no time, just the present
the limit is you, and here, ‘you’ means nothing,
and I mean nothing, my love,
nor the wind does.
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