Francis Granatiero
U IRENE ("wheat")
(1976-1983)
JOHN TESIO
U IRENE ("wheat")
(1976-1983)
[print edition: Granatiero Francis, Irene U,
Poems in the Apulian dialect submitted by Giovanni Tesio ,
Mario Arch in Rome, 1983]
my children
Raffaella and Michael Sammy
upon a way, an immature and naive euphoria descriptive, but even a careful auscultation of shapes and colors in the grenadiers first The long vigil (1968) and also tends dizioneche essentials together with small hints of a world that is its point of support, his couche : the land "whitewash" discovered "in the palm / of green hills / salty shade of olive trees (and some herald less obvious: "I find - as a child - / crackle that s fireworks, / in a dark corner, / drunk liquorice). More, perhaps, the real their schedules and the "conversion", where the use of dialect already pushes almost tout court, to the account. In
rustling (1974) is not so much scontatamente the delay on the progress of a more conscious poetic, but to grasp, again, the traces of a path you do. rustling collects a period from '69 to '73, the years of the first detachment of the country and reveals the distance, with nostalgia, memory of things. It is so light, in a post-adolescent lyricism (though decent, clear) the discovery of the return, and the figures, objects, tools, places non-generic - not merely landscape - along prose with a more relaxed movement. Against the forms sometimes sung in falsetto a bit 'coy, in fragments of research (too much) musicality, is the constant presence of the imperfect, which relaxes and loosens movements in a dense narrative, intimate conversational vocative.
Granatiero Then he confessed: "In the rustling speak to my mother in a language unknown to her, to Sbarbaro, Cardarelli, Betocchi. I wonder if it is to her that I speak. " And his concerns meet, in a completely independent, with a happy intuition Buttitta, who claimed: "He who does not speak dialect can not talk to their deaths, I like everyone else. It happens to dream of the father, the mother. If I were with my father, my mother, who were farmers, I speak Italian, my father and my mother did not recognize. Do not speak dialect means to offend the dead. " The safety of peremptory Buttitta is not grenadier, but certainly in question ("I wonder if it is to her that I speak") is the whole crisis, which will be resolved in the decisive choice of the "dialect" as the language of the new poetry. I say crisis, shock and just open the collection All'acchjitte (1976) to realize this.
are many here, the poems translated rustling in the dialect of the morning and provide valuable evidence of a shift is not sudden but thoughtful, experimental. Translation is the re-establishment of a way of thinking and not just, it seems, a form of expression. And if trama · Z · · and z, for example, still not persuaded to reach an autonomy in the luster la lune moving invocation ('fret MIJE'), which renews the more dignified "brother" The dinner of is already good indicator of a shift (a haircut) in full. Not, mind you, the appropriation of a "think in dialect," which would work against all intention, necessarily bad, but a "remember in dialect," a recollection that retrieves layers submerged lived together with the findings of a language that can stand the archaic - and indeed in it, "poietic" sinks. Still applies this statement: "My preference is wrong, of course, the dialect spoken, not because unclean but because just as" useful "and that the empty language, but that of my parents, my grandparents, filtered through memory, and filled with archaic terms (not pure folklore!), but meaningful, fair, necessary. " So, little by little, the lyricism of Granatiero gets rid of her sweet, a little 'weakened lyricism and plays for the first time a dramatic movement. In this world found U rasps sularine , with the father who first threatened and then gives the child the cluster alone ('nu Cingel / exchanged to vennégne ":" gleanings / escaped harvest') represents the first direct voice.
Research in recent years has moved on and the new collection is the sign of a coming of age. The recovery of childhood morning, even before it was proceeding from a longing for the mother and moved still puzzled, but already fabulous, the models tested in language, time stands out. Maybe they acted new readings and, perhaps more than any other cost, the work of Pierre. Not so much, we can hazard by virtue of loans minutes, but rather for its value as an example, for the surprising indication of a journey that uncovers evidence of life, and even specific affinity instrumental in other words, the dialect of proto-Pierre can be revealed at least an echo of consonance Granatiero encouraging. The direct testimony does not help to go much further: "Pierre, I discovered after the publication of All'acchjitte , I will help in regaining the" faith "lost" and he alluded, without saying, that in faith of words.
The new collection starts with a poem in prose, U cìcene . Matteccídde and objectivity of the poet is the child and Giuvanne father (more mild than others, father-master) passed the filter of a sharp memory, which captures the almost ritualistic gestures, elementary didassi, the rough and unexpected tenderness. There's a heartache (a drama) that dissolves in laughter, a bit 'as in the closed U sularine rasps. There is the statement of a relationship that affects the outcome sure to poetry as I cílze, the meggie crowds (and the game "chesa / Chesa" around which the opera moves, but Granatiero, let it be said here as a starting point develop, there is always sensitive to this research plan and technical expression), or Vinge de fades and dd'aulive , Passing through the mirror of his dead mother, already marked its coordinates in the environmental and emotional from the first section of rustle and then to the statement that, in retrospect, the accompanying "His" truth "is not the real lived in my childhood. Regret for the mother and the current nostalgia refer to a period when my mother was alive and I'm in the countryside with my father, as are fallen in the loss of only child, nostalgic of maternal, country, fellow game: there was obviously a transposition: it is transfused as the man in the child. " The lyrical narrative
Granatiero touches in this area the best results: more than in the poignant conversation with his mother in 'A Tou and' a Vereto , probative but pathetically emphatic in trembling rite, between waking and sleep, U ppéne , and finally in connection with three of those veche Ou-l'appure (formerly published under the title of most domestic U Irene, now called the entire collection), where he ran seven-triplets that recall rates of vague lauda . Granatiero loves closed forms, and the ordeal of rhyme sonnet Reggitte deserves in many ways is to close a speech is to open a new one, that here there is just so suggest. It is the discourse of the last lines (sunna and veggie Nfra , The assemigghie , A • Z · Z · Urrea and Grigg, Springs), who look at issues in a separate component and are more free play as many indicators of capacity, slope, evidence of a lyricism that memory freed in new song, a song more real. Why is the memory - more than death - the root of truth.
rustling (1974) is not so much scontatamente the delay on the progress of a more conscious poetic, but to grasp, again, the traces of a path you do. rustling collects a period from '69 to '73, the years of the first detachment of the country and reveals the distance, with nostalgia, memory of things. It is so light, in a post-adolescent lyricism (though decent, clear) the discovery of the return, and the figures, objects, tools, places non-generic - not merely landscape - along prose with a more relaxed movement. Against the forms sometimes sung in falsetto a bit 'coy, in fragments of research (too much) musicality, is the constant presence of the imperfect, which relaxes and loosens movements in a dense narrative, intimate conversational vocative.
Granatiero Then he confessed: "In the rustling speak to my mother in a language unknown to her, to Sbarbaro, Cardarelli, Betocchi. I wonder if it is to her that I speak. " And his concerns meet, in a completely independent, with a happy intuition Buttitta, who claimed: "He who does not speak dialect can not talk to their deaths, I like everyone else. It happens to dream of the father, the mother. If I were with my father, my mother, who were farmers, I speak Italian, my father and my mother did not recognize. Do not speak dialect means to offend the dead. " The safety of peremptory Buttitta is not grenadier, but certainly in question ("I wonder if it is to her that I speak") is the whole crisis, which will be resolved in the decisive choice of the "dialect" as the language of the new poetry. I say crisis, shock and just open the collection All'acchjitte (1976) to realize this.
are many here, the poems translated rustling in the dialect of the morning and provide valuable evidence of a shift is not sudden but thoughtful, experimental. Translation is the re-establishment of a way of thinking and not just, it seems, a form of expression. And if trama · Z · · and z, for example, still not persuaded to reach an autonomy in the luster la lune moving invocation ('fret MIJE'), which renews the more dignified "brother" The dinner of is already good indicator of a shift (a haircut) in full. Not, mind you, the appropriation of a "think in dialect," which would work against all intention, necessarily bad, but a "remember in dialect," a recollection that retrieves layers submerged lived together with the findings of a language that can stand the archaic - and indeed in it, "poietic" sinks. Still applies this statement: "My preference is wrong, of course, the dialect spoken, not because unclean but because just as" useful "and that the empty language, but that of my parents, my grandparents, filtered through memory, and filled with archaic terms (not pure folklore!), but meaningful, fair, necessary. " So, little by little, the lyricism of Granatiero gets rid of her sweet, a little 'weakened lyricism and plays for the first time a dramatic movement. In this world found U rasps sularine , with the father who first threatened and then gives the child the cluster alone ('nu Cingel / exchanged to vennégne ":" gleanings / escaped harvest') represents the first direct voice.
Research in recent years has moved on and the new collection is the sign of a coming of age. The recovery of childhood morning, even before it was proceeding from a longing for the mother and moved still puzzled, but already fabulous, the models tested in language, time stands out. Maybe they acted new readings and, perhaps more than any other cost, the work of Pierre. Not so much, we can hazard by virtue of loans minutes, but rather for its value as an example, for the surprising indication of a journey that uncovers evidence of life, and even specific affinity instrumental in other words, the dialect of proto-Pierre can be revealed at least an echo of consonance Granatiero encouraging. The direct testimony does not help to go much further: "Pierre, I discovered after the publication of All'acchjitte , I will help in regaining the" faith "lost" and he alluded, without saying, that in faith of words.
The new collection starts with a poem in prose, U cìcene . Matteccídde and objectivity of the poet is the child and Giuvanne father (more mild than others, father-master) passed the filter of a sharp memory, which captures the almost ritualistic gestures, elementary didassi, the rough and unexpected tenderness. There's a heartache (a drama) that dissolves in laughter, a bit 'as in the closed U sularine rasps. There is the statement of a relationship that affects the outcome sure to poetry as I cílze, the meggie crowds (and the game "chesa / Chesa" around which the opera moves, but Granatiero, let it be said here as a starting point develop, there is always sensitive to this research plan and technical expression), or Vinge de fades and dd'aulive , Passing through the mirror of his dead mother, already marked its coordinates in the environmental and emotional from the first section of rustle and then to the statement that, in retrospect, the accompanying "His" truth "is not the real lived in my childhood. Regret for the mother and the current nostalgia refer to a period when my mother was alive and I'm in the countryside with my father, as are fallen in the loss of only child, nostalgic of maternal, country, fellow game: there was obviously a transposition: it is transfused as the man in the child. " The lyrical narrative
Granatiero touches in this area the best results: more than in the poignant conversation with his mother in 'A Tou and' a Vereto , probative but pathetically emphatic in trembling rite, between waking and sleep, U ppéne , and finally in connection with three of those veche Ou-l'appure (formerly published under the title of most domestic U Irene, now called the entire collection), where he ran seven-triplets that recall rates of vague lauda . Granatiero loves closed forms, and the ordeal of rhyme sonnet Reggitte deserves in many ways is to close a speech is to open a new one, that here there is just so suggest. It is the discourse of the last lines (sunna and veggie Nfra , The assemigghie , A • Z · Z · Urrea and Grigg, Springs), who look at issues in a separate component and are more free play as many indicators of capacity, slope, evidence of a lyricism that memory freed in new song, a song more real. Why is the memory - more than death - the root of truth.
JOHN TESIO
And cìcene
cóce
And Soule. L'fèreve Arie. Li mmurèisce arretìrene sótta ce l'àruele. UNU fúche è la terre. Ggiuuanne
mete da la passe a ddùi mènele. Mena P'la manghe appògge lu lu sscèrmete ngròuce mbacce jréne e tise, ttenènnele strinde p'lu descetòune sòup'la lijatòure, allarie used dite e l'affèrre, vassce sótt'li spiche, tanda fruste quande ce ne mene càpene nd'la p'li cannídde. P'la Mena ddritte passe la fàlece sótt'lu sscèrmete e ttagghie manídde sale. «Cinghe manídde equity line sscèrmete» Dice Allu uagnòune, «cinghe sscírmete, now manúcchie, e vvendidùi manúcchie, now regghiòune».
Acciaffe DUI capestrídde jréne e mmèine uàleze sale.
A ddùi passe, la mènele e lla murèisce. Nu e sscèrmete PPO 'n'at'une, n'àlete e nn'àlete angóre. Allu jréne, ne lli de canze.
P'arrevé 'full ffrišche, na falecéte dòppe l'àlete, una canzòune. Atturne sale cúdde, mbicche sbulacchie mbicche vendescèisce, lu fazzelètte Russell.
Matteccídde, séj Anne, the ssciòppe restócce atturne went Jammet, soup soup, went Zenne read based. U na da nnecchiàreche venereal Jere VERA. Jisse li ECCE bbóne: so i rrosamarine p'li fiure bbianghe rrusse e, na sscèrmete menutidde accum; I u sarapudde che lemòune of ECCE, I u tumarídde this Scoupe che nes the arias, I Erev putrijéne; I mendàscene che créssce nd'la macerate e mbrijéche naked ssem of Epe. This
addrizze read cafòune: C'era ngruuéte. This e stennécchie ccummanne alluvial quatrére "Matteccí goes' u pije cìcene. The
acque, Hanne l'matine sòupe lu la misse jemmetòune, nd'annu feddòune ffrišche sótte au u la macchie stinge.
Matteccídde ggire atturne u fe alla macére, asscénne lèmete lu, ce la macchie mbónde ficce nnanze uaddòune lu, addemure.
«Spìccete» jride l'atténe. U uagnòune've
mbaùre mbaùre. That vòlete, nd'a qquédda macchie, Hou uiste that sèrpe arraugghiéte atturne Allu uarrile de l'acque. Po 'scòste ffrasche li, ce assacrèide, e abbrazze treppecèdda fréšche de la lu cìcene. Dòppe pigghie pe lu e la màneche, abbendènnece spisse spisse, porte alla murèisce sótta lu l'àruele.
L'atténe vèive e ttòrne a mméte.
Pure a mMatteccídde, li téne sèite. Affèrre cuddu cìcene pe ttutt'e ddóie li mméne. Lu urrije ajalezé, ma nn'è ccòuse: jè tròppe pesande pe jjisse. Allòure, sènz'allassàrele, ce stènne lúnghe lúnghe pe ndèrre, ce avvecine p'lu muse alla vòcche lu cìcene, e sficche u stùppele i ffrunne che fé da feleture. L'acque ajèsse p'lu cacòune e lli mbónne la facce, li mbónne la facce e u cìcene ce ne sfótte da li mméne.
U uagnòune, tùmmele e ccule p'angappàrele, ma cudde ce rupulèisce nd'lu uaddòune, e ppére ca, rupulènnece rupulènnece, ce la šcatte da la rise, ma tanne ce šcatte da l'abbúne, quanne šcòppe mbacce annu chiangòune nd'lu vreccite.
Mó, a mMatteccídde, la sèite, quése quése ca l'è passéte. Éve paùre c'hóu'a scì pe zzéppele. Cum'hóu'a fé a ddecirecille, allu patre, ca c'è rutte lu cìcene?
Na bbafètte de vínde semóve chiéne chiéne lu jréne. Accume ce nàzzechene li spiche, smercijèisce ché ppapagne, smercijèisce lu fazzelètte russe. Pére ca cuddu mùffele che ce hóu fatte, allu metetòure, l'hóu alleggerute la fatije.
A u remòure che fé la pagghie mbòrme méte, a u uendezzule che jéte appéne appéne, ce accócchie na canzòune che véne da lundéne. Sturnídde o pambanèlle o surdelline, lu quatrére apprefitte de l'arie che tire, e a vòcia sòu, cumbagne annu passarídde, ce ne vóle sòup'li sscìnnele de l'aletine: «Papà, c'è rutte lu cìcene».
U patre lu tenemènde, ngazzéte nò, ma despiaciute: cuddu cìcene tenèvene!
«Nfé nínde» pó' dice, «scémecìnne». E cce abbìjene murèscia murèisce, a u quarte la jrótte.
«Mó, ne mme decènne ca tine seite, "the attention the addumanne.
Matteccídde, if nzapènne Cuddie all'abbúne or all'appazzije faith, "Spades Spades" arrespónne. But u Patron Saint, u tits faith, and will put in rrire cce.
Po 'u allàzzene shoes, and there Keep it pesscine n'assuta waters. The pitcher
- The sun is hot. The air is hot. The shadows retreat under the trees. The whole earth is a fire.
John kills a few steps from almond. With his left hand supports the handpiece across the grain and standing still, holding it tightly with your thumb on the string, spreading her fingers and grabs, down below the ears, how many legs he holds the hand with thimbles cane. With the right under the handle passes the scythe and cuts a new Mannella. "Five sheaves is a handful," said the son, "five handpieces, a sheaf, and twenty-two sheaves, a haystack."
Grab some stalks of wheat and Mannello binds to the handpiece.
A few steps away, the almond tree and the shadow. A handful and then another, another and another. Gives no respite to the grain.
To get cool, a swath after another, one rhythm. Around the neck, or flutters or airs, the red handkerchief.
Matteucci, six years, uproots the olive stubble around the sucker up, up, on the edge of the field. From wasteland comes a smell of herbs. Him, he knows well: the rosemary with white and red flowers, minutes as olive inflorescence, it is known that wild thyme, lemon and thyme bushes with which it sweeps the yard, the grass is vitriol, it is the catmint growing on dry stone walls and a swarm of bees drunk . It
halyard, the peasant had locked the back. It stretches and commands the boy, "Matteucci, goes' to take the pot."
Water, have put it in the morning on the edge of the valley, in a ground wire to fresh mastic.
Matteucci is the elbow around the drywall, step down the grassy ground, stops in front of the lens which has the ravine, it lingers.
"Hurry," cried the father.
The boy is frightened and wary. Once, in that bush, she saw a snake wrapped around the barrel of water. Then, moves the branches, he reassures her, and hugging the tummy cool ogre. After it takes you to the handle and, pausing often leads him in the shade of the tree.
His father drinks, and to reap returns. Matteucci
also thirsty. Quell'orcio Grab with both hands. Would like to raise, but it is what it is too heavy for him. Then, without leaving it stretches across the floor, with nose cone comes near the mouth of the ogre, and pulls out the tangle of leaves that acts as a cork. The water flows and wets the orifice face, wet your face and the pitcher's slipping from his hands.
The boy tumbles down to retrieve it, but that is rolling into the valley, and it seems that, rolling rolling, cracks with laughter, but then crack for real, when an outbreak on a boulder of chukar.
Now, Matteucci, thirst, is very nearly the past. He's afraid to go to blows. How will she tell him, his father, who has broken the pitcher?
A puff of wind stirs the grain slowly. Waving the ears, some poppy peeps, peeps the red handkerchief. Apparently he drank that drink, the reaper, has alleviated the fatigue.
the noise it makes while reaping the straw, the wind blowing just barely, echoing a song that is far away. Stornello or pampanella or sordellino, the boy takes advantage of the air pulls, and his voice, as [the chirping 's] a sparrow, fly on the wings dell'altino "Dad, has run broke the pitcher."
The father looks at him, not angry, but disappointed: they had that quell'orcio.
"Do nothing" and then says, "let's go." And they set off, the shadows in the shadows, into the cave.
"Now, do not tell me you're thirsty," makes him the father.
Matteucci, not knowing if those are serious or joking, "Just a little" he says. But his father made him winking and laughing.
Then hurry up, and the tank will make a great drink.
U rasps sularine
v. All'acchjitte
cóce
And Soule. L'fèreve Arie. Li mmurèisce arretìrene sótta ce l'àruele. UNU fúche è la terre. Ggiuuanne
mete da la passe a ddùi mènele. Mena P'la manghe appògge lu lu sscèrmete ngròuce mbacce jréne e tise, ttenènnele strinde p'lu descetòune sòup'la lijatòure, allarie used dite e l'affèrre, vassce sótt'li spiche, tanda fruste quande ce ne mene càpene nd'la p'li cannídde. P'la Mena ddritte passe la fàlece sótt'lu sscèrmete e ttagghie manídde sale. «Cinghe manídde equity line sscèrmete» Dice Allu uagnòune, «cinghe sscírmete, now manúcchie, e vvendidùi manúcchie, now regghiòune».
Acciaffe DUI capestrídde jréne e mmèine uàleze sale.
A ddùi passe, la mènele e lla murèisce. Nu e sscèrmete PPO 'n'at'une, n'àlete e nn'àlete angóre. Allu jréne, ne lli de canze.
P'arrevé 'full ffrišche, na falecéte dòppe l'àlete, una canzòune. Atturne sale cúdde, mbicche sbulacchie mbicche vendescèisce, lu fazzelètte Russell.
Matteccídde, séj Anne, the ssciòppe restócce atturne went Jammet, soup soup, went Zenne read based. U na da nnecchiàreche venereal Jere VERA. Jisse li ECCE bbóne: so i rrosamarine p'li fiure bbianghe rrusse e, na sscèrmete menutidde accum; I u sarapudde che lemòune of ECCE, I u tumarídde this Scoupe che nes the arias, I Erev putrijéne; I mendàscene che créssce nd'la macerate e mbrijéche naked ssem of Epe. This
addrizze read cafòune: C'era ngruuéte. This e stennécchie ccummanne alluvial quatrére "Matteccí goes' u pije cìcene. The
acque, Hanne l'matine sòupe lu la misse jemmetòune, nd'annu feddòune ffrišche sótte au u la macchie stinge.
Matteccídde ggire atturne u fe alla macére, asscénne lèmete lu, ce la macchie mbónde ficce nnanze uaddòune lu, addemure.
«Spìccete» jride l'atténe. U uagnòune've
mbaùre mbaùre. That vòlete, nd'a qquédda macchie, Hou uiste that sèrpe arraugghiéte atturne Allu uarrile de l'acque. Po 'scòste ffrasche li, ce assacrèide, e abbrazze treppecèdda fréšche de la lu cìcene. Dòppe pigghie pe lu e la màneche, abbendènnece spisse spisse, porte alla murèisce sótta lu l'àruele.
L'atténe vèive e ttòrne a mméte.
Pure a mMatteccídde, li téne sèite. Affèrre cuddu cìcene pe ttutt'e ddóie li mméne. Lu urrije ajalezé, ma nn'è ccòuse: jè tròppe pesande pe jjisse. Allòure, sènz'allassàrele, ce stènne lúnghe lúnghe pe ndèrre, ce avvecine p'lu muse alla vòcche lu cìcene, e sficche u stùppele i ffrunne che fé da feleture. L'acque ajèsse p'lu cacòune e lli mbónne la facce, li mbónne la facce e u cìcene ce ne sfótte da li mméne.
U uagnòune, tùmmele e ccule p'angappàrele, ma cudde ce rupulèisce nd'lu uaddòune, e ppére ca, rupulènnece rupulènnece, ce la šcatte da la rise, ma tanne ce šcatte da l'abbúne, quanne šcòppe mbacce annu chiangòune nd'lu vreccite.
Mó, a mMatteccídde, la sèite, quése quése ca l'è passéte. Éve paùre c'hóu'a scì pe zzéppele. Cum'hóu'a fé a ddecirecille, allu patre, ca c'è rutte lu cìcene?
Na bbafètte de vínde semóve chiéne chiéne lu jréne. Accume ce nàzzechene li spiche, smercijèisce ché ppapagne, smercijèisce lu fazzelètte russe. Pére ca cuddu mùffele che ce hóu fatte, allu metetòure, l'hóu alleggerute la fatije.
A u remòure che fé la pagghie mbòrme méte, a u uendezzule che jéte appéne appéne, ce accócchie na canzòune che véne da lundéne. Sturnídde o pambanèlle o surdelline, lu quatrére apprefitte de l'arie che tire, e a vòcia sòu, cumbagne annu passarídde, ce ne vóle sòup'li sscìnnele de l'aletine: «Papà, c'è rutte lu cìcene».
U patre lu tenemènde, ngazzéte nò, ma despiaciute: cuddu cìcene tenèvene!
«Nfé nínde» pó' dice, «scémecìnne». E cce abbìjene murèscia murèisce, a u quarte la jrótte.
«Mó, ne mme decènne ca tine seite, "the attention the addumanne.
Matteccídde, if nzapènne Cuddie all'abbúne or all'appazzije faith, "Spades Spades" arrespónne. But u Patron Saint, u tits faith, and will put in rrire cce.
Po 'u allàzzene shoes, and there Keep it pesscine n'assuta waters. The pitcher
- The sun is hot. The air is hot. The shadows retreat under the trees. The whole earth is a fire.
John kills a few steps from almond. With his left hand supports the handpiece across the grain and standing still, holding it tightly with your thumb on the string, spreading her fingers and grabs, down below the ears, how many legs he holds the hand with thimbles cane. With the right under the handle passes the scythe and cuts a new Mannella. "Five sheaves is a handful," said the son, "five handpieces, a sheaf, and twenty-two sheaves, a haystack."
Grab some stalks of wheat and Mannello binds to the handpiece.
A few steps away, the almond tree and the shadow. A handful and then another, another and another. Gives no respite to the grain.
To get cool, a swath after another, one rhythm. Around the neck, or flutters or airs, the red handkerchief.
Matteucci, six years, uproots the olive stubble around the sucker up, up, on the edge of the field. From wasteland comes a smell of herbs. Him, he knows well: the rosemary with white and red flowers, minutes as olive inflorescence, it is known that wild thyme, lemon and thyme bushes with which it sweeps the yard, the grass is vitriol, it is the catmint growing on dry stone walls and a swarm of bees drunk . It
halyard, the peasant had locked the back. It stretches and commands the boy, "Matteucci, goes' to take the pot."
Water, have put it in the morning on the edge of the valley, in a ground wire to fresh mastic.
Matteucci is the elbow around the drywall, step down the grassy ground, stops in front of the lens which has the ravine, it lingers.
"Hurry," cried the father.
The boy is frightened and wary. Once, in that bush, she saw a snake wrapped around the barrel of water. Then, moves the branches, he reassures her, and hugging the tummy cool ogre. After it takes you to the handle and, pausing often leads him in the shade of the tree.
His father drinks, and to reap returns. Matteucci
also thirsty. Quell'orcio Grab with both hands. Would like to raise, but it is what it is too heavy for him. Then, without leaving it stretches across the floor, with nose cone comes near the mouth of the ogre, and pulls out the tangle of leaves that acts as a cork. The water flows and wets the orifice face, wet your face and the pitcher's slipping from his hands.
The boy tumbles down to retrieve it, but that is rolling into the valley, and it seems that, rolling rolling, cracks with laughter, but then crack for real, when an outbreak on a boulder of chukar.
Now, Matteucci, thirst, is very nearly the past. He's afraid to go to blows. How will she tell him, his father, who has broken the pitcher?
A puff of wind stirs the grain slowly. Waving the ears, some poppy peeps, peeps the red handkerchief. Apparently he drank that drink, the reaper, has alleviated the fatigue.
the noise it makes while reaping the straw, the wind blowing just barely, echoing a song that is far away. Stornello or pampanella or sordellino, the boy takes advantage of the air pulls, and his voice, as [the chirping 's] a sparrow, fly on the wings dell'altino "Dad, has run broke the pitcher."
The father looks at him, not angry, but disappointed: they had that quell'orcio.
"Do nothing" and then says, "let's go." And they set off, the shadows in the shadows, into the cave.
"Now, do not tell me you're thirsty," makes him the father.
Matteucci, not knowing if those are serious or joking, "Just a little" he says. But his father made him winking and laughing.
Then hurry up, and the tank will make a great drink.
U rasps sularine
v. All'acchjitte
Ou veche who discharge
Pudda to Irene. Pe
Ngila hanne metute
and ccerevéte: jréte
aluminum trajine to ffruste
to ffruste, quédda page
hou made the distemper, but u
uínde ggià the sea and
ttòrne sseréne lu.
T'assítte the letters.
P'la cemmené the luster
Mó mmó nge veins and veins.
U jréne to ssacche to ssacche.
Sfrevugghie lu ttabbacche
nd'la chiande de la Mene.
"Ben, is made júrne"
me by Chiemi lu Sunna
llu Treng and Stand Out
nd'la cartine; at prefume,
Zenne alla la mbunne,
e ll'arraúgghie; appicce
la zecarètte; smoked:
«Ce ha lu DDA purté jréne Allu paèise
; mene au
tume, Cape squagghie u ;
DDA nzacché ha ce lu la pagghie in
pannòune ». Citti
with me mécche zambítte,
leve la varre, cacce
lu la mule in Stade,
bbuurèisce u, 'a la pile in mbónne facce
me;
uarde e la vadde British.
E vvíne tùje: strigghie
la vèstie, i myth to Varde,
annute a cégne vrigghie ei. Tre
ttùmmene la salme
e ji all'appíte; e uuarde
la vije e nne mm'assalme.
P'u scurde o pe la lune,
p'i ccruste i jemmetune
óu véche chi l'appure.
I', šchitte pie paure
che ne mm'appadde, sule,
nd'la vadde, ije e llu mule,
che nge truuéme, pó',
da ngime i mbenneture
a u funne i rruutéle.
D'la cuccuuésce, nò,
nenn aj paùre: u sacce,
jè šchitte n'anneméle
ch' 'a nòtte šchéme. Tréme
allu penzíre d'i múrte-
accise, acchiéte mbise
annu pezzuche, o ndèrre,
accurteddéte – a i ccruce
m'affèrre, mbacce i ppréte.
I' tréme se na luce,
nu spirde, ce fé nnande,
se spie lu cammesande.
I' ch'av'acchié pó' šchitte
nd'i chiúppe 'a cumbagnije
de mamme pe la vije.
E arrive a mMatenéte;
e 'a tróve tèise, ddritte
sòupe lu cchianghettéte:
«Cuddu papà!... Nge mmanne
nu uagnòune sètt'anne
sule, 'a nòtte, p'u mule...
Va 'lla putéie, ca véne
Raffajéle e llu jréne
ce ajute a scarechéie».
Dòpp'i', by nglòppe, 'a Speis
cungégne, and dde chelòppe
m'abbìe paèise from lu.
"Vagnòune fatjatòure ...
Segnòure, bbénedìce ... "Me
says every ccafòune
ggià the Orach. "Bbèngiòrne" Dike
them, and to nzímbre llora
the 'fore I come back. Where do I go somewhere
- Grain to Gallinelle. To have claimed the sky and carried the sheaves in the farmyard: behind the cart, a twig to twig, straw is the fact that the carriage house, but the wind and return to the broadcaster already clear. You sit on the litter. To light the fireplace is now and now is not. The grain, bags. Grinds tobacco into the palm of your hand. "Ciccillo, has been done day" call me out of sleep fine and put on the map, the smells, the bathrooms on the edge, and the coils, light the cigarette smoke: "We have to carry grain to the country; hand the broom of thyme, the last grains separate from the dross, the straw must be bagged in the cave. " Shut up I wear the shoes, take off the bar, harbor the mule out of the barn, I watered, my face a bath, I look at the valley and the sky. And come on you: curries the beast, put the saddle, the girth and bridle knot. Three tomoli the soma and I walk, and the way I look and I do not despair. The dark or the moon, the rocks of the cliffs where I go somewhere. I, only I'm afraid of falling, only in the valley, the mule and I, we're not, then, on top of the cliffs to the bottom in the bushes. The owl, no, I'm not afraid, I know, it's just an animal at night makes his verse. I shudder at the thought of murder victims, found hanged in a piece of wood, or on the ground, stabbed - I grab the crosses, [painted] on the stones. I tremble when a light, a spirit comes forward, if only I see the cemetery. I found that I, then, only in the company of cypress my mother in the street. And arriving in morning, and I find her, standing upright on the pavement, "That Dad ... You do not send a boy of seven years alone, at night, with the mule ... It should be 'the shop, Raphael and the grain that is helping us to download. Then, standing in back, stores device, and the division of the country at a gallop. "Boy struggled ... Lord, bless ... "It gives me every peasant already salute. "Good morning," I say, and with them I'm going back to the fields.
U ppéne
You who holds maléte
you are 'self mmenéte nderre
jour de pe night
ttumbré ppéne lu.
Remoura of water and SSEL
nd'la kitchens, and TTU
there sfrajanive doi patens
eu cresscènde squagghjive
p'la flour.
Po 'me' calls:
"Cecco, víne m'ajute».
E amme mbastéte, e amme tumbréte,
e amme misse lu ppéne a ccréssce
sótt'li ccupírte.
E a ccuqué ce sime sciute
n'ata vòlete.
P'lu ffrišche la matine
ce sime ajalezéte.
Sà·z·ie de súnne stèive
pure lu ppéne.
E ll'amme resenéte,
e u purruzzídde amm'aggarbéte
p'la raretòure.
Cume jèvene bbèlle quiddi císte
p'li panne russe e u ppéne
sòupe lu mušche d'lu furnére.
Cèrte, jére cundènde:
m'ave mbaréte a ffé lu ppéne.
But who is discharged, perhaps
t'lu penzive,
ch'av'a worse lu Vule:
quiddity Figg ppéne lu,
angry àven'a eat the aluminum
cunzúle.
bread - you that you were sick you thrown out of bed six hours at night to make bread. Sound of water and salt in the kitchen, and you crushed us two potatoes, and baking powder mixed with flour. Then you called me, "Ciccillo, come and help." And we kneaded the bread, and we worked and we put it to rise under the covers. And we went to bed again. With fresh in the morning we got up. Sleep was also full of bread. And we Appanoose, and a smaller loaf we model with the peeling of the cupboard. How beautiful were the baskets with red cloth and the bread on the shoulder of the baker. Sure, I was glad I had learned to make bread. But who knows, maybe you thought, you had to take off: your kids, bread, had to eat well at the console.
U scrapers
Remoura de cartòune, triggering
de sfascídde,
Neive Speir de Soule,
Addou jative, Fore,
u drones nd'u scraping.
Pumpkin peel and Oure,
de purtijalle, jèrie, and
'to cravunèdde all'àleve addurèive.
CCHE bbèlle cuddu fúche!
Nd'la stréte nuie lassèume
nèive e ssciúche.
E, sse pure ngennèive
all'úcchie lustre u fume d'u rašchètte,
u mmaròure lu ppéne jére bbúne,
ggiòcche lu ndulucive
pe ll'úgghie d'avulive.
'A sèire nd'la scenisce
šcattisce de paténe: li scelèume
sciusscènne e scalefènnece li mméne.
Pó', citte, annusulèume
la stòrie de lu Méje.
A u sscìrece a ccuquéje e cché ammujine!
Jére nòtte e pparèive la matine.
Paulucce ce truuèive, a cchépe, ngròuce,
dapíte saccòune lu, terrescéte.
U scrapers Stute ages feddòune
p'la cennaròuse Jatta. The brazier
- Noise cardboard, crackling sparks, snow, sun where hopes fanned out the fire in the grate. Sugar and skins of gold, orange, sour, and smelled the charcoal dawn. I just got that fire! The road leaves and snow games. And, although burning eyes shining smoke bruschetta, the bread was good amarore, sweetened with the olive oil. Cinigiano crackling in the evening of potatoes: the cooling breezes and warm their hands. Then, softly, listened to the tale of the Magician. When going to lie down, that binge! It was night and morning it seemed. Paoluccio there was, at the head, across the foot of the sack, exhausted. The brazier was off to bed the cat ashes.
Pudda to Irene. Pe
Ngila hanne metute
and ccerevéte: jréte
aluminum trajine to ffruste
to ffruste, quédda page
hou made the distemper, but u
uínde ggià the sea and
ttòrne sseréne lu.
T'assítte the letters.
P'la cemmené the luster
Mó mmó nge veins and veins.
U jréne to ssacche to ssacche.
Sfrevugghie lu ttabbacche
nd'la chiande de la Mene.
"Ben, is made júrne"
me by Chiemi lu Sunna
llu Treng and Stand Out
nd'la cartine; at prefume,
Zenne alla la mbunne,
e ll'arraúgghie; appicce
la zecarètte; smoked:
«Ce ha lu DDA purté jréne Allu paèise
; mene au
tume, Cape squagghie u ;
DDA nzacché ha ce lu la pagghie in
pannòune ». Citti
with me mécche zambítte,
leve la varre, cacce
lu la mule in Stade,
bbuurèisce u, 'a la pile in mbónne facce
me;
uarde e la vadde British.
E vvíne tùje: strigghie
la vèstie, i myth to Varde,
annute a cégne vrigghie ei. Tre
ttùmmene la salme
e ji all'appíte; e uuarde
la vije e nne mm'assalme.
P'u scurde o pe la lune,
p'i ccruste i jemmetune
óu véche chi l'appure.
I', šchitte pie paure
che ne mm'appadde, sule,
nd'la vadde, ije e llu mule,
che nge truuéme, pó',
da ngime i mbenneture
a u funne i rruutéle.
D'la cuccuuésce, nò,
nenn aj paùre: u sacce,
jè šchitte n'anneméle
ch' 'a nòtte šchéme. Tréme
allu penzíre d'i múrte-
accise, acchiéte mbise
annu pezzuche, o ndèrre,
accurteddéte – a i ccruce
m'affèrre, mbacce i ppréte.
I' tréme se na luce,
nu spirde, ce fé nnande,
se spie lu cammesande.
I' ch'av'acchié pó' šchitte
nd'i chiúppe 'a cumbagnije
de mamme pe la vije.
E arrive a mMatenéte;
e 'a tróve tèise, ddritte
sòupe lu cchianghettéte:
«Cuddu papà!... Nge mmanne
nu uagnòune sètt'anne
sule, 'a nòtte, p'u mule...
Va 'lla putéie, ca véne
Raffajéle e llu jréne
ce ajute a scarechéie».
Dòpp'i', by nglòppe, 'a Speis
cungégne, and dde chelòppe
m'abbìe paèise from lu.
"Vagnòune fatjatòure ...
Segnòure, bbénedìce ... "Me
says every ccafòune
ggià the Orach. "Bbèngiòrne" Dike
them, and to nzímbre llora
the 'fore I come back. Where do I go somewhere
- Grain to Gallinelle. To have claimed the sky and carried the sheaves in the farmyard: behind the cart, a twig to twig, straw is the fact that the carriage house, but the wind and return to the broadcaster already clear. You sit on the litter. To light the fireplace is now and now is not. The grain, bags. Grinds tobacco into the palm of your hand. "Ciccillo, has been done day" call me out of sleep fine and put on the map, the smells, the bathrooms on the edge, and the coils, light the cigarette smoke: "We have to carry grain to the country; hand the broom of thyme, the last grains separate from the dross, the straw must be bagged in the cave. " Shut up I wear the shoes, take off the bar, harbor the mule out of the barn, I watered, my face a bath, I look at the valley and the sky. And come on you: curries the beast, put the saddle, the girth and bridle knot. Three tomoli the soma and I walk, and the way I look and I do not despair. The dark or the moon, the rocks of the cliffs where I go somewhere. I, only I'm afraid of falling, only in the valley, the mule and I, we're not, then, on top of the cliffs to the bottom in the bushes. The owl, no, I'm not afraid, I know, it's just an animal at night makes his verse. I shudder at the thought of murder victims, found hanged in a piece of wood, or on the ground, stabbed - I grab the crosses, [painted] on the stones. I tremble when a light, a spirit comes forward, if only I see the cemetery. I found that I, then, only in the company of cypress my mother in the street. And arriving in morning, and I find her, standing upright on the pavement, "That Dad ... You do not send a boy of seven years alone, at night, with the mule ... It should be 'the shop, Raphael and the grain that is helping us to download. Then, standing in back, stores device, and the division of the country at a gallop. "Boy struggled ... Lord, bless ... "It gives me every peasant already salute. "Good morning," I say, and with them I'm going back to the fields.
U ppéne
You who holds maléte
you are 'self mmenéte nderre
jour de pe night
ttumbré ppéne lu.
Remoura of water and SSEL
nd'la kitchens, and TTU
there sfrajanive doi patens
eu cresscènde squagghjive
p'la flour.
Po 'me' calls:
"Cecco, víne m'ajute».
E amme mbastéte, e amme tumbréte,
e amme misse lu ppéne a ccréssce
sótt'li ccupírte.
E a ccuqué ce sime sciute
n'ata vòlete.
P'lu ffrišche la matine
ce sime ajalezéte.
Sà·z·ie de súnne stèive
pure lu ppéne.
E ll'amme resenéte,
e u purruzzídde amm'aggarbéte
p'la raretòure.
Cume jèvene bbèlle quiddi císte
p'li panne russe e u ppéne
sòupe lu mušche d'lu furnére.
Cèrte, jére cundènde:
m'ave mbaréte a ffé lu ppéne.
But who is discharged, perhaps
t'lu penzive,
ch'av'a worse lu Vule:
quiddity Figg ppéne lu,
angry àven'a eat the aluminum
cunzúle.
bread - you that you were sick you thrown out of bed six hours at night to make bread. Sound of water and salt in the kitchen, and you crushed us two potatoes, and baking powder mixed with flour. Then you called me, "Ciccillo, come and help." And we kneaded the bread, and we worked and we put it to rise under the covers. And we went to bed again. With fresh in the morning we got up. Sleep was also full of bread. And we Appanoose, and a smaller loaf we model with the peeling of the cupboard. How beautiful were the baskets with red cloth and the bread on the shoulder of the baker. Sure, I was glad I had learned to make bread. But who knows, maybe you thought, you had to take off: your kids, bread, had to eat well at the console.
U scrapers
Remoura de cartòune, triggering
de sfascídde,
Neive Speir de Soule,
Addou jative, Fore,
u drones nd'u scraping.
Pumpkin peel and Oure,
de purtijalle, jèrie, and
'to cravunèdde all'àleve addurèive.
CCHE bbèlle cuddu fúche!
Nd'la stréte nuie lassèume
nèive e ssciúche.
E, sse pure ngennèive
all'úcchie lustre u fume d'u rašchètte,
u mmaròure lu ppéne jére bbúne,
ggiòcche lu ndulucive
pe ll'úgghie d'avulive.
'A sèire nd'la scenisce
šcattisce de paténe: li scelèume
sciusscènne e scalefènnece li mméne.
Pó', citte, annusulèume
la stòrie de lu Méje.
A u sscìrece a ccuquéje e cché ammujine!
Jére nòtte e pparèive la matine.
Paulucce ce truuèive, a cchépe, ngròuce,
dapíte saccòune lu, terrescéte.
U scrapers Stute ages feddòune
p'la cennaròuse Jatta. The brazier
- Noise cardboard, crackling sparks, snow, sun where hopes fanned out the fire in the grate. Sugar and skins of gold, orange, sour, and smelled the charcoal dawn. I just got that fire! The road leaves and snow games. And, although burning eyes shining smoke bruschetta, the bread was good amarore, sweetened with the olive oil. Cinigiano crackling in the evening of potatoes: the cooling breezes and warm their hands. Then, softly, listened to the tale of the Magician. When going to lie down, that binge! It was night and morning it seemed. Paoluccio there was, at the head, across the foot of the sack, exhausted. The brazier was off to bed the cat ashes.
I cílze, the crowds meggie
I 'I stèive city city, sote
anna Zenne de mure ngaseméje
purtisse me also to mmèje paèise aluminum.
Adda tenèive die na de cumbagne
and ffràteme and ssòrema peccenénne
and mmamme indre anna chesa all shiny. But m'allassive
forest, ngumbagnije
d'or jattarídde e 'Uardijòule Chen. E
ttuttecòuse: l'OVE, or palummídde,
i ffiche, or MMEL, i cílze, i mègghie fróttere,
to jjésse c'i purtive to qquédda mamma. Ma
mod, jesse è che morte, e nno Picche dda, sci h'a ou
cchiu, Tata? Ou
h'a sci cchiu?
Eppure, i 'na paura semba tènghe:
you if you' ffatte vecchia, e forse dae
Société Sule says u nde core.
I 'tènghe na paura, father Mije, Quann
faith you' the varve p'lu rasul,
che po 'ne nd'arre · z · z · Ilie accum'e ttanne, and
ll'ua cèreva cèreve
and ttuttecòuse mitte
nde na cce cruuèdda jròsse and the Purt,
to mmamme indre anna Chesa all shiny.
The mulberry trees, the best fruits - I stood silently and motionless in a corner, if anything take me, even me, to the country. There I had a bunch of mates and my brother and my sister still small and my mother in a house of light. But you left me in the fields, in the company of the cat and the dog Guardiola. And everything: eggs, dove, figs, honey, mulberry trees, the best fruits of her you take them to the mother. But now that she is dead, and not just where you go over, father? where go again? Yet, I always have a great fear: you have become old and alone, perhaps, not your heart tells you. I have a great fear, my father, when you do the beard with the razor, which, then, do not dress as new, as then, and fresh grapes and put everything in a big basket and carried it to my mother in a Home of light.
Vinge de fades and dd'aulive
Ije expectations Schitt nu cummanne
nglòppe u and me sarre menéte mules,
cumbagne Annu lebbracchie, eg
nnu Zumbo. But forest m'allassive
Spiss Spiss, flea and p'li mmuparèdde,
nd'la jrótte to 'nnusuléje
u sciussce de lu uínde a mmí·z·z·a l'ìlece.
I' nge vulèive crèide 'a prima vòlete,
e appírse secutèive uatte uatte;
ma dòppe che me diste p'lu suuatte,
i' rumanìje sule, e ppe nnu picchie
šcattuse, 'a sèire quanne te ne sciste
p'la vie de lu muràteche jiréte
lu jemmetòune. Pó' nghiangìje cchiù:
p'lu córe annusulèive
u šchéme de lu sicchie a u freccecòune,
e 'a cruste devendèive unu cambisce.
Cume putèive, 'a nòtte, pigghié súnne?
Melògne, vulpe e úmene suspètte
m'anghièvene la vadda de sfracchisce.
The 'me retreive, jréte u drones, art,
to nzerté Vinge de fades and dd'aulive,
ped ammuccéje all'àleve,
Pó', under the letters, nd'annu sfunne,
bbèlle panarídde nu.
Vinchi mastic and olive - just waiting for your orders and I would have thrown back to the mule, like a rabbit, with a jump. But in the countryside left me very often, with fleas and sand flies in the cave listening to the wind blowing among the oaks. I do not want to believe it the first time, I was sneaking and below you, but when you gave me with sovatto, I was alone, and complain with a spiteful, in the evening when you left for the shady street behind the edge of the valley. Then I wept no more: I heard the groan from the heart of the bucket to the fork, and the rock wall [the little light] across a pasture became [shadow]. How could I, at night, asleep? Badgers, foxes, and I suspect men filled the valley sfrascari. I retired, the fire, art, to weave willows mastic and olive, to hide at dawn, then, under the litter in the deepest recesses, a nice basket.
Waters crust
de I 'av'anghiì the water without
tròzzele andenne absence, the priest
Tise soupe de la pesscine,
p'la rope and mbósse i mméne
rósse rósse.
I' av'adacqué l'úrte sèire e mmatine,
abbuuré lu mule, anghjì la pile
alli iaddine.
I' m'av'a fé la scarpenéte.
I' m'av'a šcandé, i' av'a calé
lu panarídde, accite
l'aspresórde.
I' m'av'abbušqué la nuce mbrónde,
i' av'agghiatté cum'annu quéne,
i' av'a jastemé chépecotalànne.
I' m'av'a vèive acque de cruste e amóre
de tume sarapudde
stinge rosamarine.
I' m'av'a vèive l'acqua dólece
nu póche trùvete la statije
dòppe chiúvete.
I 'av'a vèive.
And hey you live, from
u stink and p'andénne ttròzzele,
from u so chjine de Reina and dd'èreve. Sirpa
impact, Sirpa
nde the pagghjizze and scúrzele.
U mule p'la secutéte flies hey.
U mule m'hóu muzzuquéte
nnanze split the stack. And
cchéne nn'agghiattèive,
nutshell it vvattèive crestijéne lu,
mbicche jastemèive.
I 'm'av'a vèive waters of crust and rripe.
I 'av'a vèive.
water hard ground - I had to fill the water without pulley without antenna, straight on the rock of the tank with the wet rope and red hands red. I had watered the garden morning and evening, watering the mules, fill the pan to the chickens. I had to give me the trek. I had to scare me, I had to lower the basket, killing the deaf adder. I had to earn my nut in the front, like a dog howling, cursing the whole year. I had to drink water to land hard and mood of mastic thyme rosemary. I had to drink the sweet water a little cloudy summer after rain. I had to drink. And I drank from the well with antenna and pulley, the bucket full of sand and herb. Vegetable garden snakes, snakes in the barn, and skins wetsuit. I chased the mule into a frenzy. The mule has bitten me before the cell splits. E dog guaiva, noci non bacchiava il cristiano, né bestemmiava. Io dovevo bere acqua di terra dura e roccia. Io dovevo bere.
A ffèrse a ffèrse
Pùlece e mmuparèdde
ne mme scunzèvene lu súnne
mbicche me ne stéve indre
quanne menéva vínde:
sòupe l'alevanídde jangiulicchie,
scòupe de tume, scèvene annettènne
lu jréne a ttùmmene a ttùmmene
– sòupa l'arie li nnùule
ce mangèvene la pagghie,
la jròsse e qquédda menutédde,
la camarèdde –
e u cíle spannèvene a ffèrse a ffèrse
- and cce scelèvena them mméne -
soupe lu tammaròune under the avulive,
the racanèdde,
ccògghie Stidd a banker, a ccògghie
Stidd refineries.
A whip to whip - fleas and sand flies disturbed sleep or not I stayed in when there was wind on poplars angels scoped thymus were cleaning the grain to tomolo tomolo - the clouds in the yard eating the straw , the coarse and fine, the chaff - and the sky spread to whip a whip - and froze their hands - on the mound under the olive tree, the white cloth, a clear grasp stars, black stars to grasp.
'A tou and tagged veretà
S'asscénne la lune p'lu summecèrchie
and mmi · z · z chese · and her faith in
flashes buff
cchiù ne ngióssce uínde lu.
Jei, di ', pe nne mme spavendé
ca ne ndúzzele' a la notte jréte business?
I 'u sacco, ma' ca ne nge cum'èi Vine:
you pinza pl'amóre ca ca si 'mmòrte
i' pie paura;
ma i 'nu ne Nzo
uagnòune Schetter
che i veit spirde,
Schitt nd'a ssu ca ne Munne
ndróve naked pezzuche
Addou putìreme angrambé.
Pe
qquésse ndòrme about it the night about it
mm'accujatèisce (tenemènde
the úcchie that your absence uàrdene
rire absence chiang):
Tou and sin 'to Vereto, marking the
sin
Schitt the murti.
Yours is the truth - if the moon falls in the middle of the semicircle and a pool house is no longer light the wind blows. It is, 'so as not to scare me that night knock at the door? I know, mother, why do not you just think that because you're dead I'm afraid, but I am not a straightforward guy who sees the spirits, but in this world I can not find a piece of wood where I could hang on. For this reason I do not sleep at night, I calmed down (fixed your eyes that look without laughing without crying): Why is your truth, because they only know the dead.
Reggitte
Jaspre assutte and is the land, the land
Addou nnéte I know.
I 'ce starre cujéte,
dajindre to qquiddi jrutte,
or below the net air Stidd arrêt
nnútte, Noh
spirits, lost ndutte
nd'annu Mère de priest
or city, nd' the Zappino,
nnu vulisce Schitt
de pe banks and dd'aria end.
Po 'urrìe, cum'e ll'andiche,
na pe Chiot rreggitte
sotta n'àrue de chips.
Refuge - harsh and the ground is dry, the land where I was born. I'd be there still, in those caves, or under the stars again crisp night air, not wandering, lost completely in a sea of \u200b\u200bstones, or silent, in the pines, with a desire only to rocks and thin air. Then I would, like the ancients, a tomb for shelter under a fig tree.
A nnenunne
Nu bbucchíre de vine,
dui cravune appeccéte
nde lu scrapers chjine
de scenes, and ll'addòure
che fanne dùi palline
de purtijalle a ffiòure
d'la cénera stutéte.
Sò lla recchézza tòue,
lu munne bbèlle addòue
tu passe la sciurnéte.
E sbrésce peppijènne,
e tte scúrde, vevènne,
de gni ccòusa passéte.
Pó' lu súnne te pigghie,
a u pendòune retúrne
pe ll'àsene e lli stigghie.
(Jè na rise? è nu picchie?)
T'accumbagne u zurlicchie
d'i uagnune nd'la stréte.
A mio nonno - Un bicchiere di vino, due carboni accesi nel braciere pieno di cinigia, and the smell that makes two cups of orange peel in the prime of dead ashes. I am your wealth, beautiful world where you spend the day. And sbraci pipando, and you forget, drinking, of all things past. Then sleep is the matter, return to the farm with a donkey and tools. (It's a laugh? Is a lament?). You Zurla accompanies the boys on the street.
The assemigghie
Mó mbutime cchiù
parlènne it says 'i' "and" ctu "
mbicche scattered Putim
u ttuue mmije eu.
Ssa surgetèdde mbrògghie
mmatasse
them all and, well de sse them mmamme
Je cuss u meggie hilarious
you, mo, it ngi truuènne
the assemigghie.
quatrarèdda our SSA, SSA
couse there Figg
is Nova ndutte;
and qquanne rire, rire, Noh
pp'li me 'and your pp'li nno, eg
ll'úcchie her.
Ssa Figgie nn'ha dda jesse
nu specchie Addou
putìrece Ammer;
and nnuje amm'a truué
nd'a ss'úcchie A • Z · Z · Urrea,
nd'a ssu Mére affunne,
to jjésse Munne
Schitt eau de quéss'ànema nine.
resemblances - Now we can no longer talking about saying "I" and "you", or we can share yours and mine. This little mouse cheating all the coils and, although the mothers that this is the best fun, you, now, do not go looking for resemblances. This our little girl, this thing that there is a child, everything is new, and when he laughs, he laughs, nor with my own or with your family, with her eyes. This child should not be a mirror where we can admire, and we must seek in these blue eyes, in this deep sea, and she only new the world of this soul.
A • Z · Z · Urrea and Grigg
Pute mene lu bbanne
p'li TAMmurriata.
accussi nor are they nge of
úcchie A • Z · Z · Urrea.
No 'and ccussì cchiù bbèlle nno.
A • Z · Z · Urrea and Grigg. I know its
ll'úcchie, and
mméttene to rrebbèlle
tutt'lu paèise.
gray-blue - You can throw the contract with the drums. So there are none, of blue eyes. Neither more nor so beautiful. Gray-blue. Are his eyes, and bring into turmoil across the country.
I 'I stèive city city, sote
anna Zenne de mure ngaseméje
purtisse me also to mmèje paèise aluminum.
Adda tenèive die na de cumbagne
and ffràteme and ssòrema peccenénne
and mmamme indre anna chesa all shiny. But m'allassive
forest, ngumbagnije
d'or jattarídde e 'Uardijòule Chen. E
ttuttecòuse: l'OVE, or palummídde,
i ffiche, or MMEL, i cílze, i mègghie fróttere,
to jjésse c'i purtive to qquédda mamma. Ma
mod, jesse è che morte, e nno Picche dda, sci h'a ou
cchiu, Tata? Ou
h'a sci cchiu?
Eppure, i 'na paura semba tènghe:
you if you' ffatte vecchia, e forse dae
Société Sule says u nde core.
I 'tènghe na paura, father Mije, Quann
faith you' the varve p'lu rasul,
che po 'ne nd'arre · z · z · Ilie accum'e ttanne, and
ll'ua cèreva cèreve
and ttuttecòuse mitte
nde na cce cruuèdda jròsse and the Purt,
to mmamme indre anna Chesa all shiny.
The mulberry trees, the best fruits - I stood silently and motionless in a corner, if anything take me, even me, to the country. There I had a bunch of mates and my brother and my sister still small and my mother in a house of light. But you left me in the fields, in the company of the cat and the dog Guardiola. And everything: eggs, dove, figs, honey, mulberry trees, the best fruits of her you take them to the mother. But now that she is dead, and not just where you go over, father? where go again? Yet, I always have a great fear: you have become old and alone, perhaps, not your heart tells you. I have a great fear, my father, when you do the beard with the razor, which, then, do not dress as new, as then, and fresh grapes and put everything in a big basket and carried it to my mother in a Home of light.
Vinge de fades and dd'aulive
Ije expectations Schitt nu cummanne
nglòppe u and me sarre menéte mules,
cumbagne Annu lebbracchie, eg
nnu Zumbo. But forest m'allassive
Spiss Spiss, flea and p'li mmuparèdde,
nd'la jrótte to 'nnusuléje
u sciussce de lu uínde a mmí·z·z·a l'ìlece.
I' nge vulèive crèide 'a prima vòlete,
e appírse secutèive uatte uatte;
ma dòppe che me diste p'lu suuatte,
i' rumanìje sule, e ppe nnu picchie
šcattuse, 'a sèire quanne te ne sciste
p'la vie de lu muràteche jiréte
lu jemmetòune. Pó' nghiangìje cchiù:
p'lu córe annusulèive
u šchéme de lu sicchie a u freccecòune,
e 'a cruste devendèive unu cambisce.
Cume putèive, 'a nòtte, pigghié súnne?
Melògne, vulpe e úmene suspètte
m'anghièvene la vadda de sfracchisce.
The 'me retreive, jréte u drones, art,
to nzerté Vinge de fades and dd'aulive,
ped ammuccéje all'àleve,
Pó', under the letters, nd'annu sfunne,
bbèlle panarídde nu.
Vinchi mastic and olive - just waiting for your orders and I would have thrown back to the mule, like a rabbit, with a jump. But in the countryside left me very often, with fleas and sand flies in the cave listening to the wind blowing among the oaks. I do not want to believe it the first time, I was sneaking and below you, but when you gave me with sovatto, I was alone, and complain with a spiteful, in the evening when you left for the shady street behind the edge of the valley. Then I wept no more: I heard the groan from the heart of the bucket to the fork, and the rock wall [the little light] across a pasture became [shadow]. How could I, at night, asleep? Badgers, foxes, and I suspect men filled the valley sfrascari. I retired, the fire, art, to weave willows mastic and olive, to hide at dawn, then, under the litter in the deepest recesses, a nice basket.
Waters crust
de I 'av'anghiì the water without
tròzzele andenne absence, the priest
Tise soupe de la pesscine,
p'la rope and mbósse i mméne
rósse rósse.
I' av'adacqué l'úrte sèire e mmatine,
abbuuré lu mule, anghjì la pile
alli iaddine.
I' m'av'a fé la scarpenéte.
I' m'av'a šcandé, i' av'a calé
lu panarídde, accite
l'aspresórde.
I' m'av'abbušqué la nuce mbrónde,
i' av'agghiatté cum'annu quéne,
i' av'a jastemé chépecotalànne.
I' m'av'a vèive acque de cruste e amóre
de tume sarapudde
stinge rosamarine.
I' m'av'a vèive l'acqua dólece
nu póche trùvete la statije
dòppe chiúvete.
I 'av'a vèive.
And hey you live, from
u stink and p'andénne ttròzzele,
from u so chjine de Reina and dd'èreve. Sirpa
impact, Sirpa
nde the pagghjizze and scúrzele.
U mule p'la secutéte flies hey.
U mule m'hóu muzzuquéte
nnanze split the stack. And
cchéne nn'agghiattèive,
nutshell it vvattèive crestijéne lu,
mbicche jastemèive.
I 'm'av'a vèive waters of crust and rripe.
I 'av'a vèive.
water hard ground - I had to fill the water without pulley without antenna, straight on the rock of the tank with the wet rope and red hands red. I had watered the garden morning and evening, watering the mules, fill the pan to the chickens. I had to give me the trek. I had to scare me, I had to lower the basket, killing the deaf adder. I had to earn my nut in the front, like a dog howling, cursing the whole year. I had to drink water to land hard and mood of mastic thyme rosemary. I had to drink the sweet water a little cloudy summer after rain. I had to drink. And I drank from the well with antenna and pulley, the bucket full of sand and herb. Vegetable garden snakes, snakes in the barn, and skins wetsuit. I chased the mule into a frenzy. The mule has bitten me before the cell splits. E dog guaiva, noci non bacchiava il cristiano, né bestemmiava. Io dovevo bere acqua di terra dura e roccia. Io dovevo bere.
A ffèrse a ffèrse
Pùlece e mmuparèdde
ne mme scunzèvene lu súnne
mbicche me ne stéve indre
quanne menéva vínde:
sòupe l'alevanídde jangiulicchie,
scòupe de tume, scèvene annettènne
lu jréne a ttùmmene a ttùmmene
– sòupa l'arie li nnùule
ce mangèvene la pagghie,
la jròsse e qquédda menutédde,
la camarèdde –
e u cíle spannèvene a ffèrse a ffèrse
- and cce scelèvena them mméne -
soupe lu tammaròune under the avulive,
the racanèdde,
ccògghie Stidd a banker, a ccògghie
Stidd refineries.
A whip to whip - fleas and sand flies disturbed sleep or not I stayed in when there was wind on poplars angels scoped thymus were cleaning the grain to tomolo tomolo - the clouds in the yard eating the straw , the coarse and fine, the chaff - and the sky spread to whip a whip - and froze their hands - on the mound under the olive tree, the white cloth, a clear grasp stars, black stars to grasp.
'A tou and tagged veretà
S'asscénne la lune p'lu summecèrchie
and mmi · z · z chese · and her faith in
flashes buff
cchiù ne ngióssce uínde lu.
Jei, di ', pe nne mme spavendé
ca ne ndúzzele' a la notte jréte business?
I 'u sacco, ma' ca ne nge cum'èi Vine:
you pinza pl'amóre ca ca si 'mmòrte
i' pie paura;
ma i 'nu ne Nzo
uagnòune Schetter
che i veit spirde,
Schitt nd'a ssu ca ne Munne
ndróve naked pezzuche
Addou putìreme angrambé.
Pe
qquésse ndòrme about it the night about it
mm'accujatèisce (tenemènde
the úcchie that your absence uàrdene
rire absence chiang):
Tou and sin 'to Vereto, marking the
sin
Schitt the murti.
Yours is the truth - if the moon falls in the middle of the semicircle and a pool house is no longer light the wind blows. It is, 'so as not to scare me that night knock at the door? I know, mother, why do not you just think that because you're dead I'm afraid, but I am not a straightforward guy who sees the spirits, but in this world I can not find a piece of wood where I could hang on. For this reason I do not sleep at night, I calmed down (fixed your eyes that look without laughing without crying): Why is your truth, because they only know the dead.
Reggitte
Jaspre assutte and is the land, the land
Addou nnéte I know.
I 'ce starre cujéte,
dajindre to qquiddi jrutte,
or below the net air Stidd arrêt
nnútte, Noh
spirits, lost ndutte
nd'annu Mère de priest
or city, nd' the Zappino,
nnu vulisce Schitt
de pe banks and dd'aria end.
Po 'urrìe, cum'e ll'andiche,
na pe Chiot rreggitte
sotta n'àrue de chips.
Refuge - harsh and the ground is dry, the land where I was born. I'd be there still, in those caves, or under the stars again crisp night air, not wandering, lost completely in a sea of \u200b\u200bstones, or silent, in the pines, with a desire only to rocks and thin air. Then I would, like the ancients, a tomb for shelter under a fig tree.
A nnenunne
Nu bbucchíre de vine,
dui cravune appeccéte
nde lu scrapers chjine
de scenes, and ll'addòure
che fanne dùi palline
de purtijalle a ffiòure
d'la cénera stutéte.
Sò lla recchézza tòue,
lu munne bbèlle addòue
tu passe la sciurnéte.
E sbrésce peppijènne,
e tte scúrde, vevènne,
de gni ccòusa passéte.
Pó' lu súnne te pigghie,
a u pendòune retúrne
pe ll'àsene e lli stigghie.
(Jè na rise? è nu picchie?)
T'accumbagne u zurlicchie
d'i uagnune nd'la stréte.
A mio nonno - Un bicchiere di vino, due carboni accesi nel braciere pieno di cinigia, and the smell that makes two cups of orange peel in the prime of dead ashes. I am your wealth, beautiful world where you spend the day. And sbraci pipando, and you forget, drinking, of all things past. Then sleep is the matter, return to the farm with a donkey and tools. (It's a laugh? Is a lament?). You Zurla accompanies the boys on the street.
The assemigghie
Mó mbutime cchiù
parlènne it says 'i' "and" ctu "
mbicche scattered Putim
u ttuue mmije eu.
Ssa surgetèdde mbrògghie
mmatasse
them all and, well de sse them mmamme
Je cuss u meggie hilarious
you, mo, it ngi truuènne
the assemigghie.
quatrarèdda our SSA, SSA
couse there Figg
is Nova ndutte;
and qquanne rire, rire, Noh
pp'li me 'and your pp'li nno, eg
ll'úcchie her.
Ssa Figgie nn'ha dda jesse
nu specchie Addou
putìrece Ammer;
and nnuje amm'a truué
nd'a ss'úcchie A • Z · Z · Urrea,
nd'a ssu Mére affunne,
to jjésse Munne
Schitt eau de quéss'ànema nine.
resemblances - Now we can no longer talking about saying "I" and "you", or we can share yours and mine. This little mouse cheating all the coils and, although the mothers that this is the best fun, you, now, do not go looking for resemblances. This our little girl, this thing that there is a child, everything is new, and when he laughs, he laughs, nor with my own or with your family, with her eyes. This child should not be a mirror where we can admire, and we must seek in these blue eyes, in this deep sea, and she only new the world of this soul.
A • Z · Z · Urrea and Grigg
Pute mene lu bbanne
p'li TAMmurriata.
accussi nor are they nge of
úcchie A • Z · Z · Urrea.
No 'and ccussì cchiù bbèlle nno.
A • Z · Z · Urrea and Grigg. I know its
ll'úcchie, and
mméttene to rrebbèlle
tutt'lu paèise.
gray-blue - You can throw the contract with the drums. So there are none, of blue eyes. Neither more nor so beautiful. Gray-blue. Are his eyes, and bring into turmoil across the country.
Mbra veggie and veggie ssúnne
Mbra and Sunni veic
n'úcchie de Jatte.
and Russia, and nu tezzòune. We move
uatte uatte. Pe
ssòupe aluminum saccòune
salete fe lu. "Cch'èi that ...!
ann'úcchie ndutte?! And ll'àlete?
Fe u tits? or JE that waited, and admired
, u rises ttire ?...»
Russe, nd'u scurde zombies. There
sticky: u scurde diamond.
"Na Jatte? or nu jattòune?, "Je
touch p'lu mmezzòune
the zecarètte.
between waking and sleep - Between waking and sleep I see a cat's eye. It is red like a brand. Four four moves. On the sack makes the jump. "What! with one eye?! And the other? He winked? or is waiting, and takes aim, pull the mouse ?...» Red, jump in the dark. Lights: the darkness breaks. "A cat? or a cat?, "and Tata with the cigarette butt.
Springs
is júrne and Nnenna is júrne,
all'assacrèise elsewhere,
soupe reme anna, na
neive de soul, de rouse
na vein;
and linnet nnu mbónde,
lu ui , the spark plug stèise: So
ffiure and Nnenna is Neive
and springs!
Spring - It is day and day of surprise I find, on a branch, a snow of sun, a streak of pink in a goldfinch and tip, here it is, lying to sing: Son is not flowers and snow, it's spring!
Mbra and Sunni veic
n'úcchie de Jatte.
and Russia, and nu tezzòune. We move
uatte uatte. Pe
ssòupe aluminum saccòune
salete fe lu. "Cch'èi that ...!
ann'úcchie ndutte?! And ll'àlete?
Fe u tits? or JE that waited, and admired
, u rises ttire ?...»
Russe, nd'u scurde zombies. There
sticky: u scurde diamond.
"Na Jatte? or nu jattòune?, "Je
touch p'lu mmezzòune
the zecarètte.
between waking and sleep - Between waking and sleep I see a cat's eye. It is red like a brand. Four four moves. On the sack makes the jump. "What! with one eye?! And the other? He winked? or is waiting, and takes aim, pull the mouse ?...» Red, jump in the dark. Lights: the darkness breaks. "A cat? or a cat?, "and Tata with the cigarette butt.
Springs
is júrne and Nnenna is júrne,
all'assacrèise elsewhere,
soupe reme anna, na
neive de soul, de rouse
na vein;
and linnet nnu mbónde,
lu ui , the spark plug stèise: So
ffiure and Nnenna is Neive
and springs!
Spring - It is day and day of surprise I find, on a branch, a snow of sun, a streak of pink in a goldfinch and tip, here it is, lying to sing: Son is not flowers and snow, it's spring!
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