In the morning that comes up behind the roof

in the shelter of the bridge, in the corner of the cypresses that rise above the wall,

a rooster 
has crowed.

 In the bell tower that rips the air with its shining point

the notes ring out and already the morning din can be heard in the street

the only street that goes from the river to the mountain 
dividing the woods

One looks for some other words but the ideas are always just as dark  

just as simple and singularly painful

There is hardly more than the eyes, the open air

the grass and the water in the distance with, around every bend

a well or a cool basin In the right-hand corner the last house with a larger head at the window

The trees are extremely alive and all those familiar companions

walk along the demolished wall that is crushed into the thorns with bursts of laughter

 Above the ravine the din augments, swells

 and if the car passes on the upper road one no longer knows if it is the flowers or the little bells that are chiming

Under the blazing sun, when the landscape is on fire,

the traveler crosses the stream on a very narrow bridge,

before a dark hole where the trees line the water that falls asleep in the afternoon

And, against the trembling background of the woods, the motionless ma