Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Giovanni Quessep

Arch of ice

In the garden, the moon
leaves an arch of ice over the wall;  
and in the color there is a silence, that goes  
from purple to blue towards the dark.

Pendent from a grave something  
we fall into the abyss of the things  
that are no longer the quiet music.  
The agony is the center, here there were roses

that had their clear noon.
But, in its flight, the balsamic song
closed whatever was canticle and gave place  
to the sound of the cicada and its iced  wings.

Don’t tell us then
that life – because you have always loved it-
calls us to a forest of secret perfumes
if its just a wall of  calcinated glass.

Arco de hielo

Arco de hielo

En el jardín, la luna
deja un arco de hielo sobre el muro;
y hay un silencio en el color, que pasa
del púrpura al azul hacia lo oscuro.

Pendientes de algo grave
caemos al abismo de las cosas
que ya no son la música callada.
La agonía es el centro, aquí hubo rosas

que tuvieron su claro mediodía.
Mas, la canción balsámica, en su vuelo
cerró lo que era cántico y dio paso
al son de la cigarra y sus alas de hielo.

No nos digas entonces
que la vida –pues siempre la has amado-
nos llama a una floresta de secretos perfumes
si tan sólo es un muro de vidrio calcinado.
Close

Arch of ice

In the garden, the moon
leaves an arch of ice over the wall;  
and in the color there is a silence, that goes  
from purple to blue towards the dark.

Pendent from a grave something  
we fall into the abyss of the things  
that are no longer the quiet music.  
The agony is the center, here there were roses

that had their clear noon.
But, in its flight, the balsamic song
closed whatever was canticle and gave place  
to the sound of the cicada and its iced  wings.

Don’t tell us then
that life – because you have always loved it-
calls us to a forest of secret perfumes
if its just a wall of  calcinated glass.

Arch of ice

In the garden, the moon
leaves an arch of ice over the wall;  
and in the color there is a silence, that goes  
from purple to blue towards the dark.

Pendent from a grave something  
we fall into the abyss of the things  
that are no longer the quiet music.  
The agony is the center, here there were roses

that had their clear noon.
But, in its flight, the balsamic song
closed whatever was canticle and gave place  
to the sound of the cicada and its iced  wings.

Don’t tell us then
that life – because you have always loved it-
calls us to a forest of secret perfumes
if its just a wall of  calcinated glass.
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