Bad Weather
Translated By Amy Newman
In watery nets
the convent of childhood
was reborn to me.
Where are you,
white stair?
I descended you
among the locust trees
and the earth
had no trenches.
Now on distant paths
a companion staggers,
carrying a dead man.
On his face
his eyelids fall
like lifeless violets.
Where are you
white stair?
A scream
slips from me:
the ground is gone.
Flames of perfumed smoke
along the way
no longer give shelter
in this rain.
Translated from the Italian
Notes:
The copyright of this poem belongs to the “Carlo Cattaneo” and “Giulio Preti” International Insubric Center for the Philosophy, Epistestemology, Cognitive Sciences and the History of the Science and Techniques of the University of Insubria.
Source: Poetry (October 2019)