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Giacomo Leopardi
| | 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. Still not are you paying 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 the blaze now and then when it freezes, Run away, run, longs, Varca streams and ponds, falls, rises and more and more impatient, constantly or refreshments, torn, bloody, and finally there where the path ch'arriva And where the face was so tiring: Abyss horrid, vast, Where is plummeting, forgets everything. Virgo moon, such E '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 of the human condition: Other office not you more grateful to the relatives 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, such E 'mortal state. 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; Is this death, this supreme discoloration countenance And 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 traveling to follow crude As; And when I gaze at the stars in the sky burn; I say to myself, thinking: What many torches? What does the infinite air, and that deep Infinite Seren? 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. O my flock that position, you blessed Oh, 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, I am more than ever to find peace or from afar site. And while nothing not crave, And I have to here the cause of tears. What you enjoy or what, I do not know already dir, but lucky you are. And I still enjoy little O my flock, nor of what my only 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 More I would be happy, candida moon. Or maybe wanders from the truth, Mirando another's fate, my thoughts: Maybe in what form, in which state where, in den or cradle, E 'disastrous to those born on Christmas e. |
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