Poem
Antonella Anedda
to Sofia, 19-11-1993
Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balconythe 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.
© Translation: 2000, Antonella Anedda
a Sofia, 19.11.1993
a Sofia, 19.11.1993
Davvero come adesso, l’olivo sul balconeil 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
© 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
to Sofia, 19-11-1993
Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balconythe 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.
© 2000, Antonella Anedda
From: Notti di pace occidentale
From: Notti di pace occidentale
to Sofia, 19-11-1993
Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balconythe 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.
© 2000, Antonella Anedda
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