TO MY MOTHER De Amicis
Time does not always remove the beauty
sfioran or tears and my mother worries
sixty years and more I look at it and
I feel more beautiful.
not have an accent, a glance, a smile that I
gently touches the heart.
Ah, if I were a painter, I would make life
his portrait.
I would like to retract when the bows because I kiss your face
her braid and white
when sick and weary,
hides her grief in a smile.
Ah, if my prayer to heaven was a welcomed
not ask the great painter of Urbino
the brush crown of glory divine
her pretty face.
I wish I could change his life with life, vigor
give all my years
CIO 'a mother of Henry Ward Beecher SINGS
What a mother sings
near his birthplace,
accompany a child
throughout his life.
'PREDICT NO MAMA DE
Cesare Pascarella's friend? Te spalancheno arms
nun as long as you need and as long as we have;
but, God forbid, you find yourself in trouble, you
sbatteno, fio my door in my face. You
Giovene six again, and 'is terrible life
nu' you know, but you quanno
granne more, then you n'accorgerai
it to 'I'm there Monaghan fonno mollaccia or there.
No, my handsome fio, no, nun so 'nonsense that you
quer mom says,' sti
tiètteli thoughts written here, I know 'judgments;
that ar Monno, to' is Fajola of assassins, the
Sapé who you know 'the real friends? The
Sapé who you know '? So 'Quatrini them.
MOTHER Giuseppe Ungaretti
And when the heart of a final beat
have brought down the wall of shadow
to take me, Mother, until the Lord
as once you give me your hand. In
knee, determined,
You will be a statue in front of the eternal, as already
you saw when you were still alive.
get up trembling old hands, like when
spirasti
saying: My God, here I am. And only when
possess me forgiven,
you will want to look at. Remember me
of the expected time,
you in the eye and a quick sigh.
letter to his mother Salvatore Quasimodo
Mater sweet, now the mists descend, the canal
hits confused on Dams,
the trees swell with water, burning with snow
I'm not sad in the North are not at peace with myself,
but do not expect forgiveness from anyone, I must
many tears from person to person.
I know that are not well, you live like all mothers of poets,
poor and just to the extent of love for their children away.
Today I am who I write. "- At last, say,
two words of the boy who ran away at night
with a short coat and a few lines in his pocket.
poor, so ready to kill him one day in the heart somewhere.
"Sure, I remember, was from that gray airport
slow trains carrying almonds and oranges, at the mouth dell'Imera,
the river full of magpies, salt, of eucalyptus.
But now I thank you, I want this, ell'ironia you put on my lip, mild
like yours. That smile has saved me from tears and pain.
And now I do not care if a few tears for you,
for all those like you expect, and do not know what.
Ah, gentle death, do not touch the clock in the kitchen takes over the wall my whole childhood was spent on the enamel of her face, painted flowers on those
: Do not touch the hands, the heart of the old.
But maybe someone responds? O death of love, death of shame.
Goodbye, dear, good-bye, my sweet mater.
LA MY EVENING Giovanni Pascoli
"... Don ... Don and I say Sleep!
I sing Sleep! Whisper
Sleep! Whisper Go to sleep!
There, items appear dark blue ... I
cradle songs, that make me
back as it was felt
... my mother ... then nothing
the evening "
MAMMA I'm so happy Beniamino Gigli
Mom, just for you my song flies,
mother will be with me, you will not be alone anymore!
How I love you!
These words of love that my heart longs for you
0 comments:
Post a Comment