Beautiful Autumn Morning
For Mrs Dononko
There, after all, I like these mountains with this light
with their skin wrinkled like an elephant’s belly
when his eyes narrow from old age.
There, I like these poplars, there aren’t as many
raising their shoulders into the sun.
The tall Ghegs and the short Tosks
with sickles in the summer and axes in the winter
and always the same again and again, same movements
in the same bodies, the monotony was broken.
What is the muezzin saying at the top of his minaret?
Listen!
He leaned over to the nearby balcony to embrace
a blonde doll.
She waves two rosy little hands at the sky
refusing to be rushed.
However the minaret and the balcony lean like the tower
of Pisa
you hear only whispers, it’s not the leaves or the water
‘Allah! Allah!’ it isn’t even the breeze, a strange
prayer
A rooster crowed, he must be blonde
oh, enamored soul that flew to the heights!
There, after all, I like after all these mountains coiled
like that
the tired flock around me with these wrinkles
has anyone thought of telling the mountain’s fate
as one reads a palm?
Has anyone ever thought? Oh, that persistent thought
enclosed in an empty box, willful
constantly beating the carton box all night long
like a mouse gnawing the floor.
The monotony was broken, oh you who flew to the heights
there, after all, I like
even this buffalo of the Macedonian plain, so patient
so unrushed, as though knowing that no one gets
anywhere
recalling the proud head of the war lover Vercingetorix.
Tel qu’en lui-meme enfin l’eternite le change.
Libros Libertad 