Desire for your fair hands
In the half-light of the flame:
I learn of the bay oaks, of the roses;
Of death. Old winter.
The birds looked for the grain
And were suddenly in snow;
A little sun, a shining angel,
And then the fog; and the trees
And we became air in the morning.
'Antico Inverno' translated from Italian by Salvatore Quasimodo.
Note: the literal translation of 'antico' is clearly ancient however, the English word 'old' is a better substitute here in order to maintain Salvatore Quasimodo's musicality.