by Salvatore Quasimodo
There is still the wind that I remember
firing the manes of horses, racing
slanting, across the plains,
the wind that stains and scours the sandstone,
and the heart of gloomy columns, telamons,
Overthrown in the grass. Spirit of the ancients, grey
with the rancour, return on the wind,
breathe in that feather-light moss
that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven.
How alone in the place that's still yours!
And greater, your pain if you hear, once more,
the sound that moves far off, towards the sea,
where Hesperus streaks the sky with morning:
the jew's-harp vibrates,
in the wagonner's mouth
as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow
In the murmur of Saracen olive trees.
Robin's Nest 