Autumn
Salvatore Quasimodo
Mild autumn, I master myself
and bend to your waters to drink the sky,
sweet fugue of trees and depths.
Harsh punishment for being born,
I find myself one with you;
and in you I shatter myself and heal:
poor fallen thing
the earth gathers.
Now Autumn
Salvatore Quasimodo
Now autumn despoils the green of hills,
O my sweet creatures. Again we shall hear,
before night, the last lament
of the birds, the call of the grey
plain that flows towards the deep
murmur of the sea. And the smell of wood
in the rain, the odour of lairs,
how do I live here among houses
among humans, o my sweet creatures.
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