Pulènta e galèna frègia - Davide Van de Sfroos

Pulènta e galèna frègia

e un fantasma in söe la veranda

barbèra cume’ petròli

e anca la löena me paar che sbanda…

cadrèga che fa frecàss

e buca vèrta che diis nagòtt

dumà la radio sgraffigna l’aria

e i pensee fànn un gran casòtt….

 

L’è minga vèra che nel silenzio

dorma dumà la malincunìa

l’è minga vèra che un tuscanèll

l’è minga bòn de fa una puesìa

in questa stanza senza urelògg

bàla la fata e bàla la stria

in questu siit senza la lüüs

che diis tücoos l’è duma’ l’umbrìa….

 

Scùlta el veent che pìca la pòrta

g’ha in cràpa una nìgula e in bràsc una sporta

el diis che g’ha deent un bel regàal

me sa che l’è el sòlito tempuraal….

Scùlta i spiriti e scùlta i fulètt

che ranpèghen in söel müür e sòlten föe di cassètt

g’hann söe i vestii de quand sèri penènn

i ne vànn e i ne vègnen cun’t el büceer del vènn…

 

E la candela la sta mai ferma

la se möev cumè la memoria

e anca el ràgn söe la balaüstra

ricàma el quadru de la sua storia

la ragnatela di mè pensèe

la ciàpa tütt quèll che rüva scià

ma tanti voolt la g’ha troppi böcc

e l’è tüta de rammendà….

 

La finestra la sbàtt i all,

ma la sà che po’ mea na’ via

e i stèll g’hann la facia lüstra

cumè i öcc de la nustalgìa

in questa stanza senza nissöen,

vàrdi luntàn e se vedi in facia

in questa stanza de un òltru teemp,

i mè fantasmi i làssen la traccia

 

Scùlta el veent che pìca la pòrta

G’ha in cràpa una nìgula e in bràsc una sporta

el diis che g’ha deent un bel regàal

me sa che l’è el sòlito tempuraal….

Scùlta i spiriti e scùlta i fulètt

che ranpèghen in söel müür e sòlten föe di cassètt

g’hann söe i vestii de quand sèri penènn

i ne vànn e i ne vègnen cun’t el büceer del vènn..

Cold Chicken and Polenta - Davide Van de Sfroos

 

Cold chicken and polenta

And red wine like crude oil

And ghosts haunt the veranda

And the topsy-turvy moon,

Our chairs sound underneath us

And our open mouths are silent

The only sound is the radio

And the racket of our thoughts.

 

It can’t be true that silence

Is just for melancholy

It can’t be true that cigars

Aren’t good for poetry.

There’s no clock in this room

Where witches dance with fairies

There’s no light in the room

Which they all say is empty.

 

Listen to the wind at the door,

Bag underarm, cloud overhead,

He says that his bag is a present,

But it’s the usual storm instead.

Listen for spirits, listen for elves,

Climbing walls, jumping shelves,

Wearing childhood clothes of mine,

Coming, going, drinking wine…

 

The candle flame is never still

Like a memory flows and ebbs,

Even spiders, on the sill,

Weave history into their webs.

The cobweb of my thoughts

Catches everyone coming in

But it’s all so full of holes,

I’ll have to mend it again.

 

The window beats its wings

But it knows it can’t fly.

And the stars, faces shining,

Are like nostalgia’s eyes.

I stare into the empty room

And look myself in the face.

This room from another age,

Where my ghosts have left their trace.

 

Listen to the wind at the door,

Bag underarm, cloud overhead,

He says that his bag is a present,

But it’s the usual storm instead.

Listen for spirits, listen for elves,

Climbing walls, jumping shelves,

Wearing childhood clothes of mine,

Coming, going, drinking wine…