High on a cliff there’s a twisted pine; intently it listens into the abyss with its trunk curved down like a crossbow. A refuge of nocturnal birds, in the deepest hours of midnight it resounds with the swift fluttering of wings. Even my heart has a nest suspended into the darkness, and a voice; it, too, lies awake listening at night.
(Transl. by Andres Melo Cousineau)
In alto c’è un pino distorto; sta intento ed ascolta l’abisso col fusto piegato a balestra. Rifugio d’uccelli notturni, nell’ora più alta risuona d’un battere d’ali veloce. Ha pure un suo nido il mio cuore sospeso nel buio, una voce; sta pure in ascolto, la notte.
