I don’t know if I ever really lived it after all, that afternoon in early spring. I recollect – or dream? – a field of velvet, I recollect – or dream? – skies darkening, and your fright and sheets of lightning threatening and the storm that turned the unknown country livid… Then the farmhouse on the hill and still the showers and running and shrieking and the wife at the door and a shelter for the night and the mad hours and you as merry as a milliner, and sunrise and the songs on the threshing floor and coming back in a veil of budding flowers… – Say something! – You went up where the roadway opened in springtime loveliness between the pink peach trees and the white almond trees, dew-softened… – Say something! – You were rigid, pondering the thing that had been stripped away, the thing that happens and no one knows just how it happened… – Say something! – I followed in the fragrantly scented traces of your skirt… Yet I see still your boyish body slight and sensual, your muted furrowed face that seems to be filled with its dreams of deception or farewell and with regret for what so pleasured me… On the train, you kept denying me your voice. I pleaded, leaning over you, in the rhythmic and fast rumble… I shook you, spoke words cutting, I hurt you, I was going to hit you, and you still denied me your voice. My playful friend, time flies and does break vows. It dissolved into kisses your sweet and fleeting words… But not that silence. In my memory, only lasts her wordless mouth, the mouth that silently uttered: Silence!…
(Transl. by Michael Palma – I translated the last verses as I couldn’t recover the full translation)
Non so se veramente fu vissuto quel giorno della prima primavera. Ricordo – o sogno? – un prato di velluto, ricordo – o sogno? – un cielo che s’annera e il tuo sgomento e i lampi e la bufera livida sul paese sconosciuto… Poi la cascina rustica sul colle e la corsa e le grida e la massaia e il rifugio notturno e l’ora folle e te giuliva come una crestaia, e l’aurora ed i canti in mezzo all’aia e il ritorno in un velo di corolle… – Parla! – Salivi per la bella strada primaverile, tra pescheti rosa, mandorli bianchi, molli di rugiada… – Parla! – Tacevi, rigida pensosa della cosa carpita, della cosa che accade e non si sa mai come accada… – Parla! – Seguivo l’odorosa traccia della tua gonna…Tutto rivedo quel tuo sottile corpo di cinedo, quella tua muta corrugata faccia che par sogni l’inganno od il congedo e che piacere a me par che le spiaccia… E ancor mi negasti la tua voce in treno. Supplicai, chino rimasi su te, nel rombo ritmico e veloce… Ti scossi, ti parlai con rudi frasi, ti feci male, ti percossi quasi, e ancora mi negasti la tua voce. Giocosa amica, il tempo vola, invola ogni promessa. Dissipò coi baci le tue parole tenere fugaci… Non quel silenzio. Nel ricordo, sola restò la bocca che non die’ parola, la bocca che tacendo disse: taci! …
The last part is a personal translation. Please contact me if you know the full translation.
