Italian (North Venetian Dialect) Il Bosco e i Varchi

Pier Franco Uliana

Tu ti va incontra al doman co la léngua đe jeri, no stà bađar le ṣlenguaẑone đe incόi, a le femenete che le cava le piantine đa la léngua đei bòce par semenar garnèi ẑènẑa đolor - đal bosch se inpara pura co la boca, al basta mastegar na foja, o ‘n ramet, par saver l’àrbol e ‘l tènp che ‘l lo mof –, no stà assar crésser nte i lavri al fenìscol a cuèrđer ògne paròla salvàrega, tu savarà nò sol de le rađis e đe le ponte, ma anca đe ‘n troi par al bosch che no ‘l vol farse trađur.

No sò se me perđarò, viẑa mea, quan alti i to faghèr!, no se pol véđer gnanca na s’cianta đe cel, e che ođor bòn de vita đeversa!, vae revès par scansar le vartore, a mi te voe tuta atorno, a missiarme al sangue, a méter i pas a l’anda đel cor, e la voẑe ingalivađa al fià đe foje, al tremar đe unbrìe, la mènt qua no la se confonde, la sa đe ‘n logo điṣest Parađiṣe, là ghe n’è na fontana ndove i bef i oṣèi strachi romài đe la đornađa, nte i so òci l’è tut al sol che no veđe.

Ciare cussì le matine đe agost: al vènt al ṣgorla ẑime indormenẑađe i valon i par lame đe bombaṣo al bosch al se impinẑa đe cant a còro le se cuẑa le unbrìe fin a stuṣarse là su le va e vien s’ciapađe đe ṣbir squaṣi i volesse pontar ṣbrach de nèole, l’è pròpio questa l’ora muneṣina đe perđerse đrìo i orivi đe le viẑe ndove le ṣlùṣega le franbolère, tut descolẑ par i troi del Maẑarόl fa ‘n bocia che l’à ocet de panegassa a ẑupar đa ògne foja la guaẑ de vita.

You head towards tomorrow with the language of yesterday. Don’t listen to the slanderers of today, the women rooting out seedlings from children’s tongues to sow there painless grains. The forest is a teacher to the mouth, you need only taste a twig, a leaf, to know the tree and the time which moves it –, don’t let the moss grow between your lips, burying every last wild word; then you will know about roots and fronds, and about a lost path through the woods that won’t yield to translation.

I don’t know, forest mine, if I will lose my way, how tall are your beech trees! Not a scrap of sky can I see, how nice the scent of mingled life! I walk the wrong way, elude the clearings, I want you to be all around me, stirring my blood, tuning my steps to the heart’s rhythm, my voice to the leaves’ breath, the shivering shadows. The mind will not go astray here, it knows of a place called Paradise; there I’ll find a spring where birds go seeking water, weary of the day. All the sun I cannot see is in their eyes.

Such are clear August mornings: the wind shakes sleeping fronds, the glens resemble ponds of cotton-wool, a choir of calls illuminates the woods, the shadows crouch and slowly fade; above, flocks of swallows come and go as if trying to stitch up tears in the clouds. This tender hour is the time to go astray at the edges of woods where raspberry bushes glimmer, barefoot along the paths of fairies, like a sparrow-eyed child sucking from each leaf the dew of life.

Translated by Greta Chies