This is the way that autumn came to the trees:
it stripped them down to the skin,
left their ebony bodies naked.
It shook out their hearts, the yellow leaves,
scattered them over the ground.
Anyone could trample them out of shape
undisturbed by a single moan of protest.
The birds that herald dreams
were exiled from their song,
each voice torn out of its throat.
They dropped into the dust
even before the hunter strung his bow.
Oh, God of May have mercy.
Bless these withered bodies
with the passion of your resurrection;
make their dead veins flow with blood again.
Give some tree the gift of green again.
Let one bird sing.
'' Oh, God of May have mercy. Bless these withered bodies with the passion of your resurrection; make their dead veins flow with blood again. '' ITALIAN: '' Oh, Dio di maggio sii misericordioso. Benedici questi corpi avvizziti con la passione della tua risurrezione; fa' che in queste morte vene fluisca di nuovo il sangue. ''
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I don't always have words to write after reading a poem but this one has caught my imagination and my heart. A beautiful homage to Autumn, showing the real heart of what sometimes seems like a benign season but which has winter in its heart. It is al here, captured in this translation. Superb job, my friend. Superb job.