X August (X Agosto) by Giovanni Pascoli, from the collection “Myricae” (1891-1900)

The following translation of "X August" (X Agosto) by Giovanni Pascoli is from the book "The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," published by LiteraryJoint Press (2017). Also available as Amazon ebook (Free on Kindle Unlimited!) and  on Kobo.

X of August

 

 

 

Saint Laurent, I do know why so many

stars in the tranquil air

blaze and fall, why so much weeping

is sparkling in the concave sky.

A swallow was coming back to her roof:
they killed her: she fell in thorn bushes:
she was holding in her beak an insect:

her babies swallow's dinner.

 

Now she's lying there, as on a cross, offering

that worm to that distant sky;

her nest is in the shadow, waiting,

chirping ever so softly.

 

A man too was going back to his nest:

they killed him: he said: Forgiveness;

and in his wide open eyes was a cry:

as a present he was carrying two dolls...

 

Now, there in the solitary house,

they are waiting him, waiting in vain:

he is motionless, astonished, pointing

the dolls to the  faraway sky.

 

And you, Heavens, from the height

of serene worlds, infinite, immortal,

oh!, you flood with a weep of stars

this opaque atom of Evil!

 

 

              From the collection “Myricae” (1891-1900)

 

 

The following translation of "X August" (X Agosto) by Giovanni Pascoli is from the book "The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," published by LiteraryJoint Press (2017). Also available as Amazon ebook (Free on Kindle Unlimited!) and  on Kobo.

       X Agosto

 

 

    San Lorenzo, io lo so perché tanto

di stelle per l'aria tranquilla

arde e cade, perché si gran pianto

nel concavo cielo sfavilla.

 

Ritornava una rondine al tetto:

l'uccisero: cadde tra spini:

ella aveva nel becco un insetto:

la cena de' suoi rondinini.

 

Ora è là, come in croce, che tende

quel verme a quel cielo lontano;

e il suo nido è nell'ombra, che attende,

che pigola sempre più piano.

 

Anche un uomo tornava al suo nido:

l'uccisero: disse: Perdono;

e restò negli aperti occhi un grido:

portava due bambole in dono...

  

 

Ora là, nella casa romita,

lo aspettano, aspettano in vano:

egli immobile, attonito, addita

le bambole al cielo lontano.

 

E tu, Cielo, dall'alto dei mondi

sereni, infinito, immortale,

oh!, d'un pianto di stelle lo innondi

quest'atomo opaco del Male!

 

 

             From the collection “Myricae” (1891-1900)