Journal of Italian Translation

Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri
Its throat severed
Like the black hen’s
I linger in the meadow
Alone with the evening smells
And the rag picker’s sack
where I gather the ashes
Of my earthly hours.
Waiting for Nothing
Light has not been my friend
On the earth nor water my sister.
The amiable rain water
That like a mother puts to sleep
The old tax collector
And the young frog.
I would have liked to close the sky
Like a simple door
To remain all day
Hidden in the grass
Waiting for nothing.
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