Di Vincenzo Cardarelli
Giace lassù la mia infanzia.
Lassù in quella collina
ch’io riveggo di notte,
passando in ferrovia,
segnata di vive luci.
Odor di stoppie bruciate
m’investe alla stazione.
Antico e sparso odore
simile a molte voci che mi chiamino.
Ma il treno fugge. Io vo non so dove.
M’è compagno un amico
che non si desta neppure.
Nessuno pensa o immagina
che cosa sia per me
questa materna terra ch’io sorvolo
come un ignoto, come un traditore.
By Vincenzo Cardarelli
It is there that my childhood lies.
High upon that hill
that I see again at night,
on a train passing by,
dotted with bright lights.
The smell of burnt stubble
overwhelms me at the station.
An ancient all-encompassing smell
Like a profusion of voices calling to me.
But the train is racing, going I know not where.
I am in the company of a friend
who sleeping does not even stir.
No-one knows or imagines
what it is to me
that homeland which I skirt
like a stranger, like a traitor.
Translation by ©Matilda Colarossi
Vincenzo Cardarelli, penname for Nazareno Caldarelli, was a poet, author, journalist and editor.
An illegitimate child, he grew up in his father’s buffet car; abandoned by his mother at an early age, his studies were discontinuous. Overwhelming loneliness marked his life, as did his great friendship with Ardengo Soffici, Giuseppe De Robertis, Giovanni Papini and Ungaretti, and his numerous contributions in newspapers such as Il Marzocco, La Voce, Il Resto del Carlino and Il tempo, and the magazines Lirica and La Ronda.
This poem is from the collection: “Prologhi”, 1916
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.