Mirror

And see, buds break
out of the tree:
a newer green in the grass
eases the heart:
the tree seemed already dead,
bowed on the slope
And all I know of miracle;
and I am this watery cloud
that reflected today in the ditches,
the more blue, its fragment of heaven,
this green that splits the bark
that only last night was not there.
Ed ecco sul tronco
si rompono gemme:
un verde più nuovo dell’erba
che il cuore riposa:
il tronco pareva già morto,
piegato sul botro.
E tutto mi sa di miracolo;
e sono quell’acqua di nube
che oggi rispecchia nei fossi
più azzurro il suo pezzo di cielo,
quel verde che spacca la scorza
che pure stanotte non c’era.

— Salvatore Quasimodo, born this day in 1901

plant-wallpaper-hd

The poet’s spoken discourse often depends on a mystique,
on the spiritual freedom that finds itself enslaved on earth.

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