night song of a sailor wandering in Asia What are you doing, moon in the sky? tell me, what you do,
silent moon?
rise in the evening and go,
Contemplating the desert, then you lay. Even
not you pay to revisit the everlasting
streets? Even
not take a shy, you are still with gazing vaguely
these valleys?
resembles your life
The life of a pastor.
rises in the early dawn;
Move beyond the crude PEL field, and sees
Flocks, fountains and herbs;
Then he rests up tired in the evening: Other
never ISMERI.
Tell me, O moon: what is the pastor
his life,
your life to you? tell me where my wandering tends
This short,
Your immortal course?
Vecchierel white, sick,
half-dressed and barefoot, with dire
bundle on his back,
for mountain and valley,
For acute stones, sand and high, and broken,
wind, storm, and when it flares up The
now and then when it freezes
Run away, run, longs,
Varca streams and ponds,
falls, rises and more and more impatient,
Without laying or refreshment
torn, bloody, and finally there where the path ch'arriva
And where the face was so tiring:
Abyss horrid, vast,
Ov 'and falling, forgets everything.
Virgo moon, such
is mortal life.
man is born to toil, And
risk of death is birth. Try
pain and anguish
First, and at the very beginning
The mother and father to take
The console being born. Then
that is growing,
Both of the other claims, and so still
With acts and words with him
Studiasi core
And comfort the human condition:
Other office is not more grateful
ago by relatives to their offspring.
But why give to the sun,
Why stand in life
Who then be consoled for? If life is misery
Why are we last? Intact
moon, this is the state
deadly.
But you're not mortal,
And maybe you say the least of my hauls. While you
, solitary, eternal wanderer, so thoughtful
What are you, perhaps you mean, live
This land, The
suffer ours, sigh, that is;
What is this death, this supreme
discoloration of the face will
E perish from the earth, and be used less
However, loving companionship. And you certainly
understand the why of things, and see the fruit
the morning, evening,
of tacit, infinity over time.
You know, you of course, to what sweet love
Rida spring,
Who benefits from the heat, and that the Government co procacci
'its ice.
thousand things you know, a thousand discovers, hidden
What are the simple shepherd. Often when I gaze
Star so silent in the desert floor,
That, in his lap distance, borders on the sky;
Or with my flock to follow
traveling hand in hand;
And when I gaze into the sky burn stars;
I say to myself, thinking: What
many torches?
What does the infinite air, and that deep
Infinite serenity? what means this great
Loneliness? and what am I?
So I speak with me: and the room
huge and superb, and
dell'innumerabile family
Then both use some skill, so many movements
In each heaven, all earthly things,
turning constantly, always to return whence
I am moved;
use anyone, no fruit
Guess I do not know. But you for sure,
immortal Young girl, you know everything.
This I know and feel, the endless laps
What, What
of being my frail,
few good or happy
Will fors'altri; me life is bad.
OR crude my position that, oh you blessed,
What your misery, I do not know!
How I envy you!
not only because of shortness of breath almost
go free;
that every difficulty, every injury, extreme fear
Every now forget;
But more than ever why not try tedium.
When you sit in the shade over the grass,
You 'quieted and contented;
And most of the year without boredom
consumption in that state.
And while I sit over the grass, shade, and a nuisance
me encumbers the mind, and a stimulus nearly
Yes, I fancy, sitting, more than ever are long
or find peace from the ground. And while nothing
not crave, And I have to
in this cause for tears.
What you enjoy or what, I do not know already
dir, but lucky you are.
And I still enjoy little
O my flock, not only of what I complain.
If you could speak, I ask:
Tell me why lying
A leisurely, lazy,
appeased every animal
Me, if I lie at rest, the tedium axle? Perhaps
s'avess'io
From the wings fly above the clouds, And
enumerate the stars one by one,
Or the thunder of wandering yoke yoke
I would be happier, my sweet, raw
Happier I, white moon. Or maybe
wanders from the truth,
Mirando another's fate, my thoughts:
Perhaps in what form, in which
state where, in den or cradle, is fatal to
who was born on Christmas Day.
