Niccolò Tommaseotr. Brian Cole
Ascenderà dal cenere
La fiamma del pensiero.
Alba alle umane tenebre,
O morte, è 'l tuo mistero.

Cadon le foglie, e florida
S'innoverà la pianta.
Muta l'uccel le gracili
Penne, e rivola e canta.

Lascia le vesti povere
Sull' arenosa sponda
Il giovanetto, e a tergersi
Va nuotator nell' onda.

I firmamenti invecchiano,
Mutansi come un velo.
Ha le sue morti, e germina
Rinnovellato il cielo.
The ever-burning flame of thought
will rise up from my ashes bright.
O Death, your mystery is the dawn
that puts an end to human night.

The leaves fall, and the sprouting tree
tree renews itself in flowering.
The birds are silent as they rest,
and then they fly again and sing.

The youth leaves his poor tattered clothes
lying on the sandy beach,
and then to wash and cleanse himself
goes swimming in the surging sea.

Overhead the firmaments grow old,
they change and veil with mist the view.
The sky has its own dead, and now
it germinates, and is renewed.

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Trans. Copyright © Brian Cole 2006

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