Gèmmea the air, the sun so clear
that you seek the apricot trees in bloom, and
prunalbo 's bitter odorino
feel in your heart ...
But the bush is dry and stiff plants
of black frames mark the peaceful,
the sky is empty, and hollow at the foot sounding
seems the ground.
Silence, around, alone, at twenty,
hate away from gardens and orchards,
leaves a fragile fall. It 's summer
cold, dead.
paraphrase.
's air is clear and transparent as a precious gem, the sun is clear and you seek the apricots in bloom and feel in your heart' s odorino bitter hawthorn.
But the bush is dry and stiff trees silhouetted against the sky drawing a network of dark branches, do not fly in the sky as the birds migrate to warmer countries and the ground beneath your feet sounds like a vacuum.
Silence around, only to blow the wind, hear far away from gardens and orchards, a delicate fall leaves.
few days of November, the month when we remember the dead are called "Indian summer".
Benedetta.
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