It’s a green hollow, where a river is singing Crazily hanging on the grasses rags Of silver; where the sun, from the proud mountain, Is shinning: it’s a little valley bubbling with sunlight.
A young soldier, his mouth open, his head bare, And the nape of his neck bathing in cool blue watercress, Is sleeping; he is stretched out on the grass, under the skies, Pale in his green bed where the light falls like rain.
Feet in the gladiolas, he is sleeping.Smiling like A sick child would smile, he takes a nap: Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.
Fragrances do not make his nostrils quiver; He sleeps in the sun, hand on the breast, Peacefully. He has two red holes in his right side.
It’s a green hollow, where a river is singing
ReplyDeleteCrazily hanging on the grasses rags
Of silver; where the sun, from the proud mountain,
Is shinning: it’s a little valley bubbling with sunlight.
A young soldier, his mouth open, his head bare,
And the nape of his neck bathing in cool blue watercress,
Is sleeping; he is stretched out on the grass, under the skies,
Pale in his green bed where the light falls like rain.
Feet in the gladiolas, he is sleeping.Smiling like
A sick child would smile, he takes a nap:
Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.
Fragrances do not make his nostrils quiver;
He sleeps in the sun, hand on the breast,
Peacefully. He has two red holes in his right side.