Indian Summer; Cesare Pavese

[pashed.livejournal.com]

The hills and banks of the Po are a burnt yellow,
and we've climbed here to get ripe in the sun.
This woman is telling me—as if we were friends—
Tomorrow I'm abandoning Turin, I'll never come back.
I'm tired of spending my whole life in a prison.
A faint scent of earth's in the air, as over the trees
in Turin, right now, everyone labors in prison.
I'll go back to my parents', where I can at least be alone
without crying and thinking about people with lives.
I'll get me an apron and take comfort in being rude
to my family; I'll spend the whole winter indoors.
In the country, November's a beautiful month:
the earth-colored leaves, the fog in the morning
and the sun breaking through it. This to myself
as I breathe in the smell of the cold morning sun.
I'm leaving because Turin's too beautiful now:
I like wandering through it and watching the people,
but instead I'm cooped up until everything's dark,
to suffer the evenings alone. She wants me close by
to look for a friend. Can I stay alone like that?
Day and night—the office—the stairs—the bedroom.
If I go for a walk in the evening, there's nowhere to go,
I come home mean, the next day I don't want to get up.
Turin would be so beautiful—if you could enjoy it—
if you just had to breathe. The piazzas and streets
give off the same scent of warm sun
as these trees. You can go back to your town.
But Turin is the most beautiful of all towns.
If I were to find a friend today, I'd stay here forever.

Comments

[with-rainfall.livejournal.com]

Thanks for this. :)