(Cont.d)In vain
in early autumn.
The murmur of the river, only in the vineyard,
the murmur of the river and the wind
from one abandoned row to the next.
And his voice:
“Look, muscatel, a golden bunch,
the first fruits.
Black grapes, pitch black:
look at these, a wonder;
and these, a basketful
from every stock.”
No, mother, don’t wait for him:
there’s no point leaving the door half open,
the light on, the fire banked. Mother, he’s not coming
back.
But you mustn’t cry.
Listen: sit here beside me,
here, right here, and tell me how
he used to return from the hunt,
the wild boar slung across the croup of his horse,
and enter the courtyard with laughing eyes.