A meadowThere was a meadow over a ravine
and the flower, the grass, the robin
leaning on the water: the water’s every shiver
went through the robin,
went through the grass, the flower.
Lost, one day. Now
born again inside me,
a blade of grass after
blade of grass ─ and adrift
a white, red, yellow fingermark.
A meadow reborn
within me. At the breath of winter
here is the branch, flower, grass: everything withered.
The only thing left, eternal
with the violet glimmer of its gaze,
among the lashes of the thorns, a thistle.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)