The air is gem-like, and the sun so clear <br />That you're in search of the apricot trees in blossom, <br />And in the heart you smell <br />The bitter little scent of the hawthorn. <br /> <br />But the plum is dried, and the bare dried up trees <br />Draw black pictures on the clear sky, <br />And the hollow ground resounds under the trampling, <br />And heaven seems empty. <br /> <br />Silence, all around: only in the distance from gardens and truck farms <br />You hear the fragile leaves that fall when the wind blows. <br />It's the cold Indian summer. <br />(Translated from Italian by P.G.Mazzarello)<br /><br />Paolo Giuseppe Mazzarello<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-g-pascoli-november/
