Bagni di Lucca

Between the thud of the falling chestnuts
And the groan of the torrent
That unite their sounds
The heart hesitates.

Premature winter that the north wind
Shudders through! I present myself
At the ledge which lets loose the twilight
Of the day into ice.

Marbles, branchings –
and at a shaking
Leaves in spirals, like arrows,
Into the ditch.

There passes the last herd, lost in the mist
Of the beasts’ own breath.

—

Tr. G.S. Fraser