Desire of your hands bright
in the penumbra of fire:
they knew of oak-trees, roses,
death. Ancient winter.
The birds searched for seed,
and were suddenly snow;
so, the word.
A little sun, an angelic halo,
and then the mist; and trees,
and we making dawn from the air.
Salvatore Quasimodo
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Desire of your hands bright
in the penumbra of fire:
they knew of oak-trees, roses,
death. Ancient winter.
The birds searched for seed,
and were suddenly snow;
so, the word.
A little sun, an angelic halo,
and then the mist; and trees,
and we making dawn from the air.
Salvatore Quasimodo
