Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Antonella Anedda

to Sofia, 19-11-1993

Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balcony
the wind transforming the clouds. Beyond the century
in the evenings to come when neither you nor I
will be here, when the years will be branches
to nudge something without purpose,
in the evenings in which other people
will look at each other as they do today
in dreams – in the darkness
like curved moulds of a volcano under white ash.

I fold the sheet and switch off the last light
I let your temples slowly beat against the covers
and let the night kneel down
on your brief November.

a Sofia, 19.11.1993

a Sofia, 19.11.1993

Davvero come adesso, l’olivo sul balcone
il vento che trasmuta le nubi. Oltre il secolo
Nelle sere a venire quando né tu né io ci saremo
Quando gli anni saranno rami
Per spingere qualcosa senza meta
Nelle sere in cui altri si guarderanno come oggi
Nel sonno – nel buio
Come calchi di vulcano curvi nella cenere bianca

Piego il lenzuolo spengo l’ultima luce
Lascio che le tue tempie battano piano le coperte
Che si genufletta la notte
Sul tuo veloce novembre
Close

to Sofia, 19-11-1993

Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balcony
the wind transforming the clouds. Beyond the century
in the evenings to come when neither you nor I
will be here, when the years will be branches
to nudge something without purpose,
in the evenings in which other people
will look at each other as they do today
in dreams – in the darkness
like curved moulds of a volcano under white ash.

I fold the sheet and switch off the last light
I let your temples slowly beat against the covers
and let the night kneel down
on your brief November.

to Sofia, 19-11-1993

Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balcony
the wind transforming the clouds. Beyond the century
in the evenings to come when neither you nor I
will be here, when the years will be branches
to nudge something without purpose,
in the evenings in which other people
will look at each other as they do today
in dreams – in the darkness
like curved moulds of a volcano under white ash.

I fold the sheet and switch off the last light
I let your temples slowly beat against the covers
and let the night kneel down
on your brief November.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère