Antico Inverno
Desiderio delle tue mani chiare
Nella penombra della fiamma:
Sapevano di rovere e di rose;
Di morte. Antico inverno.
Cercavano il miglio gli uccelli
Ed erano subito di neve;
Cosi le parole:
Un po' di sole, una raggera d'angelo,
E poi la nebbia; e gli alberi,
E noi fatti d'aria al mattino.
Ancient Winter
Desire of your hands white
In the penumbra of the flame:
They had the fragrance of oak and of roses;
Of death. Ancient winter.
The birds were looking for millet
And were suddenly of snow;
So with words:
A bit of sun, an angel's halo,
And then the mist; and the trees,
And ourselves made of air in the morning.
So with words:
A bit of sun, an angel's halo,
And then the mist; and the trees,
And ourselves made of air in the morning.
-Salvatore Quasimodo
