Jean-Francois Millet (1814-1875), The shooting stars
Call you rose, dawn, or flowing water, what is it – if not words threw together among the scraps of other tongues, other mouths? Mysteries are not what they seem, or rather, words cannot say them: in deep space, a few stars.
Chiamarti rosa, aurora, acqua fluente, cos’è se non parole raccattate tra i rifiuti d’altre lingue, d’altre bocche? I misteri non sono quel che sembrano, o non riescono a dirli le parole: nello spazio profondo, stelle poche.
Do you know a different English translation? Please contact me, this is a personal translation
