by Sandro D. Fossemò
Translated by Luca Palantrani
(Translated from Italian to English)
Snowmen smile in severe chill,
without the warmth from the stars.
Reindeers draw sledges by the dense ice,
without the lead of a rebel.
A decreipt and afflicted vagabond plays the flute,
on an arid street of cars,
despite his bony hands quiver in the piercing wind.
May God send an angel to his aid.
In the shadows looms a petrified silence,
in this gloom and bleak December.
Garlands await at the door,
for friends or relatives who no one cares for.
On the evening of Christmas Eve I keep my TV off,
to hear the tinkle of the tiny silver bells.
The tintinnabulation sinks me in a musical dream,
with icicles and the red spheres of the Christmas tree.
On the mountains the dainty church donates serenity to me,
as a lantern in the profound darkness.
The crib and the chant
bring back myself to the mystery and ancient charm,
of a holy city teeming with happiness.
The Nativity comet lacerates the obscurity
and make something real shine in the sky ,
of a brilliance endowed by a royal diamond.
In the woods the wolf, come from east, howls,
oblivious that his cry of death
vanishes on the gleaming crystal.
I prepare the room for the Holy Night
and fall asleep after drunken
the wine from the barrel.
The merry melody of the golden notes bells
rouses me from the sleep in the fatal hour.
The blue Sapphire throbs inside my heart,
which pulses in those Pleiades with nostalgia and ardor.
In the emerald green and decorations
that gleam like a treasure
I #nd within a letter a pearl of great value.
In the festive harmony of this carousel,
I no longer sense myself inside the exile of the forest.
A robin taps on the window ...
Here and there snow decorates the whitish glass.
The light of the candle is revived
and burns through the eternity , where I returned.
Ding festive bells
Sound, sound joyous.