Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Umberto Fiori

INHABITANTS

The sun high up
and below the rising smoke,
the piazza and the walls in shade:
this is what we are used to –
the habit.
Behind the last house
this morning the mountains
appeared
much too close and naked.

Once round the corner,
there was the weight of bodies
who had jumped on the moving bus.
Between the flashes of welders’ torches
there came up through the asphalt
the smell of mud.

We have been here always.
Sometimes though, it seems
as if we’re not still living
in the usual place. One day on the way to work
to feel the earth under our feet
how hard it is – how solid –
makes us afraid.

BEWONERS

Boven mij de zon
en onder mij de rook die opstijgt,
het plein, de muren in de schaduw:
net als gewoonlijk.
Achter het laatste huis
leken de bergen
vanmorgen te dichtbij te zijn, te naakt.

Eenmaal om de hoek
was daar het gewicht van de mensen
die op de bus zijn gesprongen.
Tussen de vonken van de gasvlam
kwam vanonder het asfalt
de geur van modder.

We zitten hier al een eeuwigheid.
Maar soms lijkt het ons
dat we nog niet wonen
op de vertrouwde plek. Dat we ooit, op weg naar het werk,
de grond onder onze voeten
hard en stevig zullen voelen
jaagt ons angst aan.

ABITANTI

Il sole in alto
e sotto il fumo che sale,
la piazza, i muri in ombra:
è l’abitudine.
Dietro l’ultima casa
stamattina sembravano
troppo vicine e nude, le montagne.

Svoltato l’angolo,
c’era il peso delle persone
salite al volo sull’autobus.
In mezzo ai lampi della fiamma ossidrica
veniva da sotto l’asfalto
l’odore del fango.

Da sempre noi stiamo qui.
A volte però ci pare
di non abitare ancora
nel solito posto. Un giorno, andando al lavoro,
la terra sotto i piedi
sentire com’è dura, com’è solida,
ci fa paura.
Close

INHABITANTS

The sun high up
and below the rising smoke,
the piazza and the walls in shade:
this is what we are used to –
the habit.
Behind the last house
this morning the mountains
appeared
much too close and naked.

Once round the corner,
there was the weight of bodies
who had jumped on the moving bus.
Between the flashes of welders’ torches
there came up through the asphalt
the smell of mud.

We have been here always.
Sometimes though, it seems
as if we’re not still living
in the usual place. One day on the way to work
to feel the earth under our feet
how hard it is – how solid –
makes us afraid.

INHABITANTS

The sun high up
and below the rising smoke,
the piazza and the walls in shade:
this is what we are used to –
the habit.
Behind the last house
this morning the mountains
appeared
much too close and naked.

Once round the corner,
there was the weight of bodies
who had jumped on the moving bus.
Between the flashes of welders’ torches
there came up through the asphalt
the smell of mud.

We have been here always.
Sometimes though, it seems
as if we’re not still living
in the usual place. One day on the way to work
to feel the earth under our feet
how hard it is – how solid –
makes us afraid.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère