Di Ada Negri
Quando tu venisti, una notte, verso il suo letto, al buio,
e le dicesti, piano, già sopra di lei: Non ti vedo, non ti sento.
E la ghermisti con artiglio d’aquila, e tutta la costringesti nella tua forza
riplasmandola in te con tal furore ch’ella perdette il senso d’esistere.
E uno solo in due bocche fu il rantolo e misto fu il sangue e fu il ritmo perfetto,
e dal balcone aperto la notte guardava con l’occhio d’una sola stella
e il sonno che seguì parve la morte, e immoti come cadaveri
la tristezza dell’ombra vi vegliò sino all’alba.
By Ada Negri
When you came, one night, towards her bed, in the dark
and you said, softly, already on top of her: I can’t see you, I can’t hear you.
And you clawed her with raptorial talon, and forced yourself upon her
remoulding her in you with such fury that she lost all sense of being.
And one sole cry escaped two mouths and mingled was your blood and perfect the rhythm,
and from the open balcony the night looked on with the eye of one star
and the sleep that followed was like death, and as motionless as corpses
the sadness of the shadows kept vigil over you until dawn.
Translation ©Matilda Colarossi
Ada Negri, 1870-1945, was born in Lodi; she was the first Italian poet from the working class. She was the author of numerous works, both poetry and prose.
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