To begin, Poetry, I call upon you to help,
as this is your domain, aerial kingdom of poem,
heart of sensitive men,
flourished field of the thousand perfect moments,
in the dazzled look of the children,
in the highest hope of the good men
that, clear in their innocence,
find you and live with you.
In your name I start the journey
of this frozen moor, this empty and silent desert
that only you can to fill,
dream of love and unity amongst men,
sacred illusion of freedom.
You are the wealth of the travellers:
you give them all the land to walk on
and the whole firmament to dream
and the living word to love
melted in a hug like brothers.
Yours is the desert and its entourage of stars,
yours the steppe that beat the april’s snows.
In the depth of your loneliness rise the pure spring
that waters the dreamt of garden,
the eternal springtime
where the lonely traveller
quenches his thirst.
In you finds the star
the man misplaced in the night of times,
oh, beautiful and deep, strong and free,
intimate and generous Poetry!
For you shines deeply the look of lovers
and comes the artist’s feeling of precious inspiration,
the music that comes from afar and sounds deep
like a song from within.
For you the eagle rises its flight
to the ethereal regions of the kingdom of light
and gloriously crossing the ocean of the centuries
takes your word to the grey day of the troubled man:
that one that was once a child,
that one that once looked at the world as if it were new
and he wanted to stay.
If barren the paper appears before my eyes
and the frozen length of the leaves
looks like a north wind and snow beaten moor
you will know to take me to the heart of the poem,
to the hearth where the hot flame is generous
and friendly hands fill my glass with red wine.
If the paper is a burning desert,
ah, mute skeletons burnt by the sun,
deaf wildernesses blinded by thirst!,
by your hand I will get to the fresh oasis
where my brother awaits:
that of noble stock
you were always distinguished, Poetry.