Visiù

In mès a sbarlafüs e mes-ciotade
ó troàt la sò curuna del rosare...
la giràa söi nodèi a belasì
insèma l’mururà
sensìbel di orassiù;
àle de l’ànima,
l’arma sigüra,
cél di nòs-cc vècc.
La brasa sóta
la sènder di malinconée.
Coi öcc isgiùf
de comussiù te ède,
ède amò ‘l vèl ligér
sura ‘l cucù,
inzenöciada, séria.
Söcie i paròle,
ma ‘n di sò öcc la lüs,
la tenerèssa,
póche i basì,
ma dólse, delicade
i sò carèsse.
Örèss sèntem ninà
e col palmo di mé mà
sfrisà i nodèi di sò,
in del mistére d’amùr,
che sèmper,
sèmper strènze ‘n cör.

Among objects and trinkets
I found her rosary...
she used to turn it slowly between her knuckles
along with the gentle murmur
of her prayers —
wings of the soul,
the sure weapon,
the heaven of our elders.
The ember beneath
the ashes of melancholy.

With eyes swollen
from emotion, I see you —
I still see the light veil
over your gathered hair,
kneeling, solemn.
Few were your words,
but in your eyes — light,
tenderness.
Rare were your kisses,
but sweet, delicate
your caresses.

I wish I could feel myself cradled again,
and with the palms of my hands
touch the knuckles of yours,
in the mystery
of love that always,
always I hold in my heart —
ambitions
of those who desire war.