‘n de la n\u00f2t che la sconfi\u00f3na
\ni me’ ‘ns\u00f2gni entortol\u00e0di
\ns\u00e8nto ‘l c\u00ecch de na pav\u00e8la
\n‘mpreson\u00e0da dr\u00e9 dai v\u00e9dri
\nfar la p\u00e0issa a luna e st\u00e9le
\n‘mpitur\u00e0de sul cel\u00f3r
\nde la st\u00f9a de la me’ vita<\/p>\n
l’\u00e8 qo\u00e9l br\u00e8ghel cet\u00e0 via
\nda ‘l scorl\u00e0r de f\u00f6ie s\u00e9che
\nde doi \u00e0le ‘mbes\u00f9ide
\nda qo\u00e9l filed\u00e8l tac\u00e0
\nstr\u00f9ch al c\u00f6r o l\u00ecve ar\u00e8nt
\ncome ‘n gi\u00f2m mai desgarti\u00e0<\/p>\n
e la passa \u00e9la, zev\u00ecla,
\nsenza d\u00e0rghe \u00f2dia a neg\u00f9n
\nma la c\u00ecga ancor pu f\u00f2rt
\ndr\u00e9 dal v\u00e9dro, ‘mbarlum\u00e0da
\ntut de ‘n tr\u00e0t dav\u00e8rgio ‘l uss
\ne la del\u00ecbra le \u00e0le al ci\u00e9l<\/p>\n
la se tr\u00e0 ‘nc\u00f2ntra a la luna
\ndent ‘n de ‘l sgol de rotol\u00e0ne<\/p>\n
v\u00e8n mat\u00ecna e r\u00e8sta n\u00f2t<\/p>\n
Giuliano<\/strong><\/p>\n sogni<\/p>\n nella notte che spintona | i miei sogni attorcigliati | sento un grido di falena | imprigionata dietro ai vetri | a tendere un agguato a stelle e luna | pitturate sul soffitto | del salotto della mia vita | \u00e8 quell’urlo ammutolito | dal vibrare di foglie secche | di due ali rallentate | da quel frenulo\u00a0 attaccato | stretto al cuore o l\u00ec vicino | come un gomitolo ancora chiuso | lei passa, supponente | senza dare ascolto a nessuno | ma il suo grido stride ancora |\u00a0 da dietro il vetro, abbacinata | e d’un tratto le apro un varco | e lei spiega al cielo le ali | si butta incontro alla luna | dentro un volo di pipistrelli |\u00a0 viene mattina e rimane notte<\/p>\n Dreams (Traduzione di Guido Comin PoetaMatus\u00e8l) In the night that shoves A scream that is stifled And it passes oh so arrogant Hurling fast towards the moon <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" ‘n de la n\u00f2t che la sconfi\u00f3na i me’ ‘ns\u00f2gni entortol\u00e0di s\u00e8nto ‘l c\u00ecch de na pav\u00e8la ‘mpreson\u00e0da dr\u00e9 dai v\u00e9dri far la p\u00e0issa a luna e st\u00e9le ‘mpitur\u00e0de sul cel\u00f3r de la st\u00f9a de la me’ vita l’\u00e8 qo\u00e9l br\u00e8ghel cet\u00e0 via da ‘l scorl\u00e0r de f\u00f6ie s\u00e9che de doi \u00e0le ‘mbes\u00f9ide da qo\u00e9l … <\/p>\n
\n<\/b><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmy dreams so very twisted
\nI hear a moth crying out
\ncaptive of window panes
\nto ambush moon and stars
\npainted on the ceiling
\nof the parlour of my life<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nby the shiver of dry leaves
\nof two wings that are mired
\nby that fraenulum attached
\ntightly round the heart or near
\nlike a ball of wool still wound<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nwithout minding anyone
\nbut it cries even more loudly,
\ndazzled, from behind the glass
\nwhen I give it sudden opening
\nand it takes flight to the sky<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmingling in a flock of bats \u2013
\nit is morning, yet still dark
\n<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n