Even the rain is with us,
shakes up the quiet air.
Swallows skim the waters off
at the lakes of Lombardy,
fly like gulls on small fish;
hay smells over the fences of the gardens.
Another year has blown,
without complaint, without a cry raised
to win all of a sudden one day.
shakes up the quiet air.
Swallows skim the waters off
at the lakes of Lombardy,
fly like gulls on small fish;
hay smells over the fences of the gardens.
Another year has blown,
without complaint, without a cry raised
to win all of a sudden one day.
Salvatore Quasimodo
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