The Rain In The Pineto

Shut up. Up the thresholds
I do not hear of the forest
words you say
human; but I hear
newer words
that speak drops and leaves
distant.
Listens. Rains
from the scattered clouds.
It rains on the tamarisks
brackish and burnt,
it rains on the pines
scaly and bristly,
it rains on the myrtles
divine,
on the shining gorse
of flowers welcomed,
on the thick junipers
of aulent cuddles,
it rains on our faces
silvani,
it rains on our hands
naked,
on our clothes
light,
on the fresh thoughts
that the soul opens
short story,
on the beautiful fairy tale
than yesterday
deluded you, who deludes me today,
or Hermione.

You hate? The rain falls
on the lonely one
vegetables
with a crackling that lasts
and varies in the air
according to the fronds
more sparse, less sparse.
Listens. He answers
singing to tears
cicadas
than the southern cry
does not fear,
nor the ashen sky.
And the pine
has a sound, and myrtle
another sound, and the juniper
still another, instruments
different
under countless fingers.
And immersed
we are in the spirit
sylvan,
living arboreal life;
and your ebro face
it is soft with rain
like a leaf,
and your hair
they like
the clear brooms,
or terrestrial creature
that you have name
Hermione.

Listen, listen. The agreement
of aerial cicadas
little by little
more deaf
is done under the tears
that grows;
but a song is mixed in
more hoarse
that rises from there,
from the remote humid shadow.
More deaf and dimmer
it loosens, goes out.
Just a note
still trembles, goes out,
it rises, trembles, goes out.
There is no voice of the sea.
Now we hear all over the branch
crust
the silver rain
that cleanses,
the croscio that varies
according to the frond
thicker, less thick.
Listens.
The daughter of the air
it is silent; but the daughter
of the distant silt,
the Frog,
sing in the deepest shadow,
who knows where, who knows where!
And it rains on your eyelashes,
Hermione.

It rains on your black lashes
so that you seem to cry
but of pleasure; not white
but almost gone virent,
par from rind you go out.
And all life is fresh in us
courtly,
the heart in the breast is like peach
intact,
between the lids the eyes
they are like springs among the grass,
the teeth in the cavities
they are like unripe almonds.
And let’s go from fratta to fratta,
now conjoined or dissolved
(and rough green vigor
we tie the mallèoli
entangles our knees)
who knows where, who knows where!
And it rains on our faces
silvani,
it rains on our hands
naked,
on our clothes
light,
on the fresh thoughts
that the soul opens
short story,
on the beautiful fairy tale
than yesterday
deceived me, who deceives you today,
or Hermione

Poem by Gabriele D Annunzio