Journal of Italian Translation

Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni
they are hell,
they are frenetic.
But during the night,
when night does come,
they recast themselves,
new avenues
shadowy, lonely avenues,
when tall streetlamps illuminate them
and the latest adverts fade out.
Then they move delicately,
branching, perhaps the whole city
turns on itself;
some end at a castle, others
at a cathedral, others dissolve beneath
the orange lights of a highway junction –
the avenues breath in the night with their wide black
plane-trees, their subway gates and sad, singsong lullaby
sleeping over the children.
They draw a breath as the last
trolley passenger takes his leave –
The avenues offer me
a special life,
one that’s neither tears nor joy
but a breeziness,
a sense of moving
on and on
that comes from who knows what seas
or valleys, from great rivers.
What’s outside there? (Avrebbe amato chiunque)
What’s outside, there
what nothingness
or what a sky in that nothingness,
what a night
the fire
pulled down everything
destroyed everything
stealing your breath.
What was there where you
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