Translated from the Italian by Laura Valeri
High above the hills, the flaming space
of a dispersed sunset
where a faint topaz moon
inscribes an arc and fades hoary.
Grottos of shadow trees, grey
of the wild glades. And that weary
sound of water at the end of an evening.
You over my heart, you in my eyes,
desperate sweetness. Meanwhile,
our time together dies.
Wherever you fly, inspired lark,
memory and hope disperse.
Muted every sound, spent every word,
the rush of life seems dormant.
Only that sky exists, and the lone
pitch of your voice;
your soaring song.
Once under an infernal sky
broken ablaze by the fires of war,
I saw the petals of a white rose
unfold with love.
Through the rumbles that gutted the night
I heard the soft purl of a stream
flow through the grass and the stones. In the horror
of death, the only living, that sound
of water, that flower.