accese.
Erba lunga di spiaggia incollata al pavimento vicino alle tue
scarpe,
polline della scorsa estate si alza da zanzariere bagnate.
Questo è ordine, questi cumuli che riempiono spiazzi fra noi,
indumenti aggrappati alle sedie, le tue scarpe in un guscio
di fango.
La pioggia forte ha un odore come se venisse dalla terra.
La luce umana dentro le nostre finestre, calma aranciata
di stanze viste dall'esterno. Il posto dove ci diamo da soli,
dandoci al sonno. Circondati dalla garanzia verde di una foresta,
dal tulle di ferro di cielo e mare,
mentre la notte, la pioggia, fila giù attraverso gli alberi.
Anne Michaels
Quello che la luce insegna
traduzione e cura di Francesca Romana Paci
Giunti 2000
Rain Makes Its Own Night
Rain makes its own night, long mornings with the lamp left
on.
Lean bean grass sticks to the floor near your shoes,
last summer’s pollen rises from damp metal screens.
This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us,
clothes clinging to chairs, your shoes in a muddy grip.
The hard rain smells like it comes from the earth.
the human light in our windows, the orange stillness
of rooms seen from outside. The place we fall to alone,
falling to sleep. Surrounded by a forest’s green assurance,
the iron gauze of sky and sea,
while night, the rain, pulls itself down through the trees.
on.
Lean bean grass sticks to the floor near your shoes,
last summer’s pollen rises from damp metal screens.
This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us,
clothes clinging to chairs, your shoes in a muddy grip.
The hard rain smells like it comes from the earth.
the human light in our windows, the orange stillness
of rooms seen from outside. The place we fall to alone,
falling to sleep. Surrounded by a forest’s green assurance,
the iron gauze of sky and sea,
while night, the rain, pulls itself down through the trees.
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