Taci. On the threshold of the woods I hear
human words you say, but I hear more new words
speaking
drops away and leaves.
Play.
raining from the clouds dispersed.
rains on the tamarisk
brackish and burned,
rain on the pines and steep scaly
,
raining on the myrtles
divine
shining on the broom
Flowers accepted, on the junipers
thick fragrant
of pampering, it rains on
our faces
sylvan,
raining on our hands
naked, on our clothes
light
on the fresh thoughts that the soul
novel opens,
on the lovely fable that yesterday
t'illuse, Today m'illude,
or Hermione.
hear? The rain falls on the lonely
vegetables with a rattle that lasts
and varies according to the fronds in the air
more rare, less sparse.
Play.
responds to the cry of cicadas singing
that crying Southern
not afraid, neither
the ashen sky.
And the pine has a sound, and other sound
myrtle, juniper and
more, stromenti
under many different fingers.
And we are in the spirit of immense
Scotch
of arboreal life living;
and your face is soft rain ebro
like a leaf, and your hair
auliscono
as the clear broom, or creature
land that
you name
Hermione.
Play, Play. The agreement
of cicadas flying
gradually
deader
is done under the plant that grows
;
but there is a song mixes
more raucous than there
salt, damp shade
remote. More and more deaf
s'allenta dim, goes out. Only a note
still trembles, turns off,
rises, trembles, turns off.
not we hear about all the leaves
Crosc
the silver rain that cleanses,
Crosc the foliage that varies according to the
thicker, less dense.
Play.
Daughter
air is mute, but her daughter
silt away,
the frog sings
deepest shadows,
who knows where, who knows where!
And it rains on your eyelashes,
Hermione.
rains on your black eyelashes so that it seems you cry
but of pleasure, but not white
virente almost done,
seems to peel you out.
All my life is in us
fresh fragrant,
my heart in my chest is like fishing
intact
between the eyelids
eyes are like pools in the grass, in the alveoli
teeth are like bitter almonds. And we go in
offal offal, or joint
or dissolved
(rude vigor and green
us belting melleoli
c'intrica knees)
who knows where, who knows where!
It's raining on our faces
sylvan,
raining on our hands
naked, on our clothes
light
on the fresh thoughts that the soul
novel opens,
on the lovely fable that yesterday
m'illuse, now t'illude,
or Hermione.
