Propriu Quannu Sta Scurannu / When the Day is Almost Over

Ch’ist’omu anzianu,
Cu facci antica, arrappata,
Cu surca asciutti duri e occhi
Comu dui cannili a picchiu,
osserva.

Osserva
Li facci ancora lisci
Cu occhi brillanti di vita.

Chiss’occhi ‘nfunnu talia
e ci vulissi diri
“Pi tia e` ancora estati.
Fa chi ogni iornu cunta!”

Ma nun lu dici.
Silenziu.
Dillu e` perdita di ciatu.

“Chi umanita` fissa.”
Mutu murmuria.
“Caminamu a lu scuru
‘nta lu vespiru a menziornu
e ‘naddunamu ch’era iornu
propriu quannu sta scurannu!

‘Ni lu so` mutu monolugu
Senti l’ecu di pinusi antichi paroli
luntani
ripetiti “Furtunati chiddi chi
scoprunu
‘ntempu li tisori di la vita,
Prima ancora chi lu tempu
Si li pigghia narre`.

Ch’ist’omu anzianu, stu Cassandra
Gridassi a lu munnu
Si fussi macari possibili
Trasiri ‘nti l’oricchi
Prioccupati e surdi.

Ma l’anzianu sapi.
Lu sapi, picchi` ha campatu
Li quattru staciuni.

Cu rabbia e amarizza muta
Ricorda li primaveri senza ciuri.
Facci tristi
scumpariri ‘nta ‘na negghia
d’estati senza frutti,
e facci sculuruti comu la rina
di un disertu chi nun pruduci
espressioni di vita.

E prestu li viri puru tu!
(Vulissi diri).

“Ma tinn’adduni sulu.
Sulu quannu sta scurannu.”

When the day is almost over,
this old man, this spectator
with an ancient face,
wrinkled... dried up,
with furrows
deep and thick,
with eyes like
two flickering candles,
observes young faces.

Smooth unlined faces.
Eyes that sparkle with youth.
These eyes he eyes
and considers.
“For you it is still summer;
make every day count,”
he would like to say.

But he does not say.
He keeps silence.
To say it
would be
a waste of breath.
How foolish is
all humanity!
This old man
rambles wordlessly.

Beneath the midday sun
we walk in the dark.
But only make that discovery
when the day is almost over.

His quiet anguished monologue
– intercepted by
echoing ancient words –
cries out,
“Lucky are the few
who unearth life’s treasure
before time steals it back!”

This old man,
this Cassandra,
would madly scream it out
were it remotely possible
to pierce
preoccupied and deaf ears.

But he knows,
this old man,
he knows.
Because he has lived
his four seasons.

And with recriminations
recalls
his own vacant visage
in a spring
without flowers

and sad vanishing
colorless faces
in a summer
with no fruits

and he remembers faces
as blank as desert sand
holding not even as much
as a raised eyebrow.

“And all too soon,
you will have seen them too.”
(He would like to say).

But, you will come
to realize it only
when the day is almost over.