***
You are my hometown of forgetfulness, of healing,
Made for ЛЮБОВЬ [LUBOVJ – love],
I woke to find you swathed in la nebbia,
ТЫ НЕБО [TY NJEBO – you are the sky]!
The sense of gravity pops off your streets,
Hands hover over the partituras and oils.
You smell with freshly sharpened pencils, of woods,
Of “violin forests” – Paneveggio,
I marvellously feel enlarged inside your fort,
Born in a shirt – РУБАШКА [RUBASHKA]! ,
Still mouthful of kisses, not of words –
БЕЗ СЛОВ [BEZ SLOV]! Senza parole!
Your avenues are dense with butterflies –
ПОРХАТЬ КАК БАБОЧКА [PORHATJ KAK BABOCHKA – to float like a butterfly]!
The air thick of honey, not of dust,
The city channels are like sleeveless evening dresses,
Something of a northern puritan in me
Prevents my lips from sieging you,
My dear hometown,
I nose shyly over and around your medieval church,
Я СЛУШАЮ, КАК СЕРДЦЕ БЬЁТСЯ [YA SLUSHAJU, KAK SERTSE BIJOTSA – I listen to the heart beating]!
Primavera primitiva su A3, chokes 2023, Sara Maino
