La Parvula

Roberto Amato


L’aria è splendente.


Scende dal mare sulle ali distese del gabbiano reale

plana mia madre,

sfiora e spazza il suo tetto.


con una voce d’oro

qualcosa di celeste a tutti questi



E li scompiglia, si mettono a girare per le stanze

del pianterreno

e salgono la scala

si sporgono

alle finestre delle camere,

guardano verso il tetto,

e frugano le gale alla sottana di mia madre,

cercano i suoi piedini chiusi

nelle babbucce con la penna d’oca.


Roberto Amato


The air is resplendent.


She slips off the sea on the open wings of the herring gull

my mother glides,

skims and sweeps her roof.

She announces

in a golden voice

something celestial for all these



And rattles them, they set off roaming the rooms

of the ground floor

and climb the staircase

they lean

out of bedroom windows,

they look towards the roof,

and explore the ruffles of my mother’s skirt,

searching for her small feet enclosed

in the babouches with the goose plume.


Translation ©Matilda Colarossi

The poem is from the book: Le cucine celesti (Diabasis 2003)

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