Verso Santiago

 

Luciano Erba

Mi ritrovo negli spazi intermedi
su una strada di terra e cespugli
a perdita d’occhio verso i monti
non so se cantabrici o galleghi

mi ritrovo senza traccia di tappa
di sosta, di partenza, di arrivo
non incontro fonti né incroci
né querce in gruppo sull’altopiano

uno stento girasole selvatico
spunta da un campo di biada
non meno diverso da un segno

di ruota nel fango riarso
dalla polvere, da tutti gli sterpi
dalle grandi nuvole sopra di noi.

To Santiago

 

Luciano Erba

 I find myself in intermediate spaces
on a road of gravel and shrubs
that stretches endlessly towards the hills
I’m not sure if Cantabrian or Galician

I find myself with no trace of a stop
for resting, for departures, for arrivals
I meet no springs nor crossings
nor oak trees grouped on the high plain

a lonely wild sunflower
appears in a field of fodder
not any different from the sign

of a wheel in the burnt mud
from the dust, from the brushwood
from the huge clouds above us.

Translation ©Matilda Colarossi

This poem is from the collection La terra di mezzo, Mondadori, Milano, 2000

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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