A mezzanotte un angelo (I Romanzi Extra Passion) (Italian Edition)

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An old man is touching the tea, his hand lifts one box and then another, holding each like a cubed puzzle. I see his arm tremble. I look over my shoulder. Hot needles prick into my face, my throat thick and salty. The man turns to face me.

Mezzanotte è lora (I Romanzi Extra Passion) (Italian Edition)

Sun spots blotch his cheeks. For a moment, I look back. A translator who habitually speaks both languages cannot see the world as a monolingual does.

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Each object has a layer of words: His habit of use decides which comes irst, the change most noticeable in everyday speech. He can feel new words in his mouth, others dropping away. They are tied to ground he no longer walks. He watches his thoughts for interfer- ence, when the second language disrupts the irst. Proper nouns are the most in danger. He will forget the names of certain birds and the word for his local drink. He will forget the green strip where those birds once roosted. He has already forgotten the amber lash of their wings.

Nella corsia del New World prendo in esame le confezioni: La settimana scorsa una signora ha portato panini rosa ripieni di crema dolce. La gente ha applaudito. Vedo che il braccio gli trema. Mi guardo alle spalle. Mi viene un formicolio alla faccia, un nodo salato alla gola. Le guance macchiate dal sole. Per un attimo mi guardo indietro. Ogni oggetto ha uno strato di parole: Si sente le parole nuove in bocca, le altre che lo abbandonano.

Controlla le interferenze nei pensieri, quando la seconda lingua interrompe la prima. Through sleep, cloaked horsemen ride their mares down tepid roads that end in fields of hay.

About this book

A calm, clear night. With blind dread, heard from far away, the trains bear down on crowds and market wares. But you, a god who smiles at gain and loss: Now be the sheen In wine. Alle fronde dei salici, per voto, anche le nostre cetre erano appese, oscillavano lievi al triste vento.

Portami tu la pianta che conduce dove sorgono bionde trasparenze e vapora la vita quale essenza; portami il girasole impazzito di luce.

About this book

With foreign boot soles stamped down on our hearts? Among the littered dead left in the square on frozen grass? Or to the lamb-like cries of children left un-dammed? Or to the black howl of the mother running toward her son the telegraph pole strung up, cruciied? On the willow limbs, we left a vow— our votive lyres, which we suspended there, to tune sad air to all that lives and dies.

Bring it so that I may plant it in my sere and salt-sown space, and offer to the blue reflective sky, all day, the fear that paints its yellow face.


They reach toward brightness, all the darkest things, spending their bodies in the shades that flow and melt in music. So the dark things go, fading in the destinies chance brings. Qual sia la sua bellezza io non so dire, come colui che ode suoni dormendo e virtudi ignote entran nel suo dormire. In catena di putti non mise tanta gioia Donatello, fervendo il marmo sotto lo scalpello, quando ornava le bianche cattedrali. What woman ever gave herself in love except for you, for you, dear quite as sweetly as this current, full and free?

Its beauty, taken whole, defeats my words.


I keep on hearing sounds while sleeping. I hear their unknown powers that come seeping, deep into my sleep. The green, audacious waves leap—green waves wild with foam. They churn as they advance with all the grace a bold young animal might show. Donatello styled less joy in all the angel hands he formed, that linked in marble that his chisel warmed, when he adorned the white cathedrals. There below the garlands carved with fruit and blooms, a child- like gambol wreathes his pulpits. Adora, adora, e attendi! Sono le reti pensili. Your feet were bare, And left their prints of light. You see them there?

Out of those waters rise great calices woven from gold iner than I can say.

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Butterlies like your golden hands ly clear in pairs; they ind in waves discoveries of wonder—giant blooms from some strange sphere— while you breathe brine-sachet, the salt-sea scent. You see the ishing nets hung out? Some slope like balance-scales that hang from poles in place to prop the high, extended platform-bridges where the men keep watch to twist the rope. Some hang from bows of dories, where they cut the everlasting, glass sea-face that mirrors them in turn; and when the sun beats on the boats astern, and all the oars are shut down, stilled, huge radiance transigures them: Out of these waters rise great calices— lilies alame.