The ripened perfection of this day -
August eleventh but it's like September
the rock split, sweet, containing nectar -
enfolds in its light this mountain
here, meadows abuzz underfoot golden
to the eye, Antiope asleep, woods
black to the eye the silver penetrations
of snails and veins filtering water from
way upon high, where suddenly the sky
shows itself in today's heavy silk finery
pale blue with insignia of white silk trim
and festive gold (clouds and sun),
the lowland too, a view of which
won't be, at such distance, possible
except after the tiring climb to the ridge
and once there, to be contemplated in a burnished scythe
the young father holds aloft followed
by a son already a hunter of nests by
a daughter in faded lilac by a wife
already old and in that mobile mirror hurry
to focus your sight you'll see the horizontal city
lady of vice and paisible* conversation
traversed by bridges festooned with belvederes:
such perfection was to be remembered.
Translation by Nicholas Benson
of Attilio Bertolucci's poem L'undici agosto