Dialect Poetry of Southern Italy (Italian Poetry in Translation Book 2)

Certain Enchanted Nights

Descend, sleep, descend
upon this weary heart
that cannot rest...
Certain enchanted nights,
I hear
the echo of the stars
as they turn minute by minute;
the sigh
of a rose made giddy by the dew.
the rustle of a cricket,
a thrush
that’s taking flight and stirs the foliage
makes me jump up trembling on the bed....
But in the morning,
the pillow
becomes sweet, a lily:
my mother’s shadow
brushes by me, speechless,
and with hands of air,
caresses my forehead and my hair.
I close my eyes,
and through the room