Pietro Berra

da "Poesie di lago e di mare"

traduzione di Taddeo Roccasalda

My sea.

Can you hear the steps o’the walking sea?
To and fro – to and fro – to...
But from up here you can only see its white
feet. And twelve kneeling trunks
should perhaps kiss them...
Are you asleep? Yes, sleep, my sea.

Live Baits.

The difference
between the lords and the poor
is a matter
of distance and diopters:
is it a cruising ship
or a desperate people’s wreck,
that approaching gleam –
it seems to approach –
from Albania towards
this c(ru)oast of Salento?

I approach three fishing
kids – they’re not
fishermen sons,
they don’t care ‘bout the full moon –
to hear what they say.

The only whisper
comes from a reel,
rewinding in jerks,
as the emaciated line
of my conjectures.
Hanging by the hook, a grey mullet
looking like a tunny
trying to catch the sea again
with a desperate
and vain finstroke.

All of a sudden,
a fellow of about forty
comes out of a tuff turret:
“What did I tell you, Francè,
live bait is always the best”.

That night
- by that time we were sound asleep -
live baits
got ashore at Torre dell’Orso.

The optimist.

When the wind reveals
the outline of a mountain
beyond the sea,
you think of Eden
and not of Pristina’s ruins.