TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY PRINCE SINGH
She weeps,
dew upon the jasmine.
Morning arrives, a tuneful trill,
a whirl of dance in the veiled light.
It is noon.
White linens dry,
a few doves sing,
rags and the scent of lavender.
The sun beats down,
and the white linens dazzle.
She prays,
incense in the ode.
The sun grows weary,
now pale—the plague,
and now red—the sorrow.
Dusk,
prelude to languor.
Night, Mother of my poetry.
She sleeps,
a cloud brea
king upon the moon.
Also, read The Battle of Jericho~The Bells of Bose, written by Tiziana Vigni, translated from the Italian by Suzanne McDonnell, and published in The Antonym.
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