A Little Inn...May. At an inn above
Antignano: everywhere
the sweet aroma of
fresh calamint in the air;
the innkeeper’s dog nearby,
barking; the barrel of wine
by the door; the hen’s shrill cry
to her chick; a fresh and fine
breeze so softly flowing
from the mountain, mixing now
with the wind that keeps on blowing
my hair across my brow...
Here we are seated round
a small table, the two of us.
Slowly this slender hand
takes mine in its caress...
How cold the omelet’s become
on the plate, unattended to...
Ah, how distracted I am,
ah, how enchanted are you...
(Translated by Michael Palma)