Poem
Antonella Anedda
III
To unearth the reason for a verbbecause the truth is it’s not time yet
and we don’t know whether to rush forward or take flight.
Make it evening, say an evening in December,
the tea chests levered up on chocks for removal
give form to the darkness
whilst the cooking flares against the wall.
These are the nights of Western peace
and flying in their rays are the cramped biographies,
the berry-dark portraits, the scrolls of names.
A different quietness shields us on one side
like a marine weight wrapped in jute
and folded carefully, with desperation.
© Translation: 2000, Antonella Anedda
III
III
Per trovare la ragione di un verboperché ancora davvero non é tempo
e non sappiamo se accorrere o fuggire.
Fai sera come fosse dicembre
sulle casse innalzate sul cuneo del trasloco
dai forma al buio
mentre il cibo s’infiamma alla parete.
Queste sono le notti di pace occidentale
nei loro raggi vola l’angustia delle biografie
gli acini scuri dei ritratti, i cartigli dei nomi.
Ci difende di lato un’altra quiete
come un peso marino nella iuta
piegato a lungo, con disperazione.
© 1999, Antonella Anedda
From: Notti di pace occidentale
Publisher: Donzelli, Roma
From: Notti di pace occidentale
Publisher: Donzelli, Roma
Poems
Poems of Antonella Anedda
Close
III
To unearth the reason for a verbbecause the truth is it’s not time yet
and we don’t know whether to rush forward or take flight.
Make it evening, say an evening in December,
the tea chests levered up on chocks for removal
give form to the darkness
whilst the cooking flares against the wall.
These are the nights of Western peace
and flying in their rays are the cramped biographies,
the berry-dark portraits, the scrolls of names.
A different quietness shields us on one side
like a marine weight wrapped in jute
and folded carefully, with desperation.
© 2000, Antonella Anedda
From: Notti di pace occidentale
From: Notti di pace occidentale
III
To unearth the reason for a verbbecause the truth is it’s not time yet
and we don’t know whether to rush forward or take flight.
Make it evening, say an evening in December,
the tea chests levered up on chocks for removal
give form to the darkness
whilst the cooking flares against the wall.
These are the nights of Western peace
and flying in their rays are the cramped biographies,
the berry-dark portraits, the scrolls of names.
A different quietness shields us on one side
like a marine weight wrapped in jute
and folded carefully, with desperation.
© 2000, Antonella Anedda
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