Ada Negri: Prato d’aprile / April meadow

Prato d’aprile

Ada Negri

C’era un prato: con folte erbe, frammiste
a bianchi fiori, e gialli, e violetti;
e fra esse un brusio di mille piccole
vite felici; e se sull’erbe e i fiori
spirava il vento, con piegar di steli
tutto il prato nel sol trascolorava.

E volavan farfalle, uguali a petali
sciolti dai gambi; e si perdean rapidi
i miei pensieri in quell’aerea danza
ove l’ala era il fiore e il fiore l’ala.

Ma dov’era quel prato? Non so più.
E quel vento soave, che scendea
sull’erbe folte, a renderle
curve e beate, e me con loro, in quale
tempo io dunque l’intesi? Non so più.

Fu un sogno, forse. E che mai altro, o vita,
chiedere a te dovrei? Vita perduta,
nella tua verità non sei che un sogno.

April meadow

Ada Negri

There was a meadow: with thick grasses, sprinkled
with white flowers, and yellow, and violet;
and among them a bustling of thousands of tiny
happy lives; and if over the grasses and flowers
the wind blew, with a bending of stalks
the whole meadow in the sun turned pale.

And butterflies flew, just like petals
freed from their stems; and quickly lost
were my thoughts in that aerial dance
where the wing was flower and the flower wing.

But where was that meadow? I no longer know.
And that gentle wind―which swept down
on the thick grasses, to make them
bowed and blissful, and I with them―when
then did I feel it? I no longer know.

It was a dream, perhaps. And nothing again, life,
should I ask of you? Lost life,
in your truth you are nothing but a dream.

Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2025

When I started writing this blog, I dedicated one of my first poems in translation to my mother. It, too, was by Ada Negri. That was in November, 2014, and the poem was called “In my mother’s town”. I included a picture of the rugged mountain landscape she called home.

Today marks the third year without my mom’s shoulder to cry on, her laugh to share in, her hugs to drown in, and so I dedicate this poem to her. Today’s picture, too, is a landscape she called home. -M.C.

Ada Negri: Nel paese di mia madre/In my mother’s town

You may have noticed that as of today I have started adding a “Tip jar” to the posts on the blog: if you like the more than ten years of Italian prose and poetry (and not only) in translation found here without any publicity, and you would like to buy me a cappuccino, well…cheers!