Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Franco Loi

Treetops that tremble in the sky here,

Treetops that tremble in the sky here,
twittering sparrows that hide themselves
thoughtlessly in the grass, and we continue our make-believe:
the air like a membrane between us and the reality of bran¬ches.
Hands appear to touch each other, mouths to speak with each other,
and then, all of a sudden, you hear no calling any longer.
I have forgotten the moon, the late hour
and that silence of the birds: you hear the wind.

Boomkruinen die hier trillen in de lucht,

Boomkruinen die hier trillen in de lucht,
kwetterende mussen die zich gedachtenloos
verstoppen in het gras, en wij maar doen alsof:
de lucht als een vlies tussen ons en de werkelijkheid van takken.
Handen lijken elkaar te raken, monden met elkaar te spreken,
en dan, ineens, hoor je geen roepen meer.
Ik ben de maan vergeten, het late uur
en dat zwijgen van de vogels: je hoort de wind.

Cimase di alberi che ci tremate nel ciclo,
passerti pettegoli che s'inerbano spensierati,
e noi siamo qui a fingere: c'è come un velo
nell'aria tra noi e il vero dei rami.
E sembra si tocchino le mani, le bocche si parlano,
e poi, di colpo, non si sentono più i richiami.
Ho dimenticato la luna, l'ora tarda
e quel tacere degli uccelli: si sente il vento.
Close

Treetops that tremble in the sky here,

Treetops that tremble in the sky here,
twittering sparrows that hide themselves
thoughtlessly in the grass, and we continue our make-believe:
the air like a membrane between us and the reality of bran¬ches.
Hands appear to touch each other, mouths to speak with each other,
and then, all of a sudden, you hear no calling any longer.
I have forgotten the moon, the late hour
and that silence of the birds: you hear the wind.

Treetops that tremble in the sky here,

Treetops that tremble in the sky here,
twittering sparrows that hide themselves
thoughtlessly in the grass, and we continue our make-believe:
the air like a membrane between us and the reality of bran¬ches.
Hands appear to touch each other, mouths to speak with each other,
and then, all of a sudden, you hear no calling any longer.
I have forgotten the moon, the late hour
and that silence of the birds: you hear the wind.
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