Look at the Dusk, my Monsignor
For the Dusk in its silence
Speaks, my Monsignor.
Rare the birds fly past
Now; the sea without a sound
Round.
Except for some rare rustling
Above
the churches in the
Ancient town
Ring fading day as things that
Fade transform and change
Away
Almost, my Monsignor, each day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem is a melancholy perception of time passing, but it's not depressed. Melancholy means SWEET SADNESS, because the sadness comes from our awareness of brevity of our time but the sweetness registers the beauty that suffuses all of that time. Dusk itself is the briefest of time spans and yet you point to birds, churches, silences that extend the sweetness of perception. I think even the dour Monsignor wuill be touched by the charm of the scene.