| ALCORE | CAROL |
| Patrizia Gattaceca | trans. Sarah Lawson (from Corsican) |
|
Mi porta è sbacca l'aria azura Hè l'alilongu arcanghjulatu, In l'albá stà longu tiratu; U ghjornu sgrinfia à tempu natu Mi gira in tondu à la primura ... Eccu s'arimba, ecu d'inguernu È lu mio languidu rughjone Ciò chì dice manda à caternu, L'aria di a verde staghjone ... Mi piglia è sbacca l'aria pura Hè l'alibiondu arcanghjulatu, U nivulu sfilaccicatu, Focu in senu chì piglia fiatu; U piacè cù la strappatura, Mi porta è sbacca l'aria azura ... In paradisu un viaghjone Sopr'à l'acque di fiuminale Linde chì correnu à l'anghjone; Mi morgu è mi movenu l'ale! In mè si stende a volta scura In l'acqua d'un pozzu turbaru, U tempu di l'eri affundatu; In terra sò lu volu umbratu, Alitu rossu in la bughjura, Mi porta è sbacca l'aria azura ... |
He cleaves the blue air, comes to take me, The long-winged archangel, Leaving behind a footprint at dawn, And when his fingertips give birth to the day He hovers around my desire ... The winter has come as foretold And my country is nodding and drowses It forgets the words that it says And the season the green rouses ... He cleaves the pure air, comes to choose me, He is the archangel with golden wings, The rain cloud that turns into the sea, The passion that renders me fecund, The tearing and the pleasure. He cleaves the blue air, comes to take me ... It's a journey to paradise Beyond the great river's flow; A return to the hearth, to the land - I die and my wings start to grow! When in me the evening comes to lie down In the turbulent water of the well where I sink, In the wreckage of the past I go; He is the flight, I am his shadow, In the grey of the wind about to grow pink He cleaves the blue air, comes to take me! |
Copyright © Patrizia Gattaceca 2000, publ. Les Belles Lettres, Paris: transl. copyright © Sarah Lawson 2002