Salvatore Quasimodo

(1901-1968 / Italy)

Street In Agrigentum - Poem 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 rancour, return on the wind,
breathe in that feather-light moss
that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven.
How alone in the space 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 waggoner’s mouth
as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow,
in the murmur of Saracen olive trees.


Comments about Street In Agrigentum by Salvatore Quasimodo

  • Fabrizio Frosini (6/14/2015 4:31:00 AM)


    ''Strada di Agrigentum''

    Là dura un vento che ricordo acceso
    nelle criniere dei cavalli obliqui in
    corsa lungo le pianure, vento che
    macchia e rode l’arenaria e il cuore dei
    telamoni lugubri, riversi sopra l’erba.
    Anima antica, grigia di rancori, torni
    a quel vento, annusi il delicato
    muschio che riveste i giganti sospinti
    giù dal cielo. Come sola allo spazio
    che ti resta! E più t’accori s’odi
    ancora il suono che s’allontana largo
    verso il mare dove Espero già striscia
    mattutino: il marranzano tristemente
    vibra nella gola al carraio che risale
    il colle nitido di luna, lento tra il
    murmure d’ulivi saraceni.
    (Report) Reply

    6 person liked.
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  • Fabrizio Frosini (6/14/2015 4:11:00 AM)


    ''Street in Agrigentum''



    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 rancour, return on the wind,

    breathe in that feather-light moss

    that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven.

    How alone in the space 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 waggoner’s mouth

    as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow,

    in the murmur of Saracen olive trees.

    - -
    Note: On the southern coast of Sicily, Agrigento is the ancient Agrigentum, or Akragas, one of the leading cities of Magna Graecia.
    (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: wind, remember, heaven, pain, sea, alone, sky, light, heart, fire, horse, tree



Poem Submitted: Wednesday, January 22, 2003



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