The Italian poet Giovanni Pascoli's father was mysteriously killed on La Notte di San Lorenzo while returning home from a farmers' fair in 1867. His son wrote this beautiful poem in memory of his father.
X Agosto
San Lorenzo, io lo so perché tanto
di stelle per l’aria tranquilla
arde e cade, perché sì gran pianto
nel concavo cielo sfavilla.
Ritornava una rondine al tetto:
l’uccisero: cadde tra spini;
ella aveva nel becco un insetto:
la cena de’ suoi rondinini.
Ora è là, come in croce, che tende
quel verme a quel cielo lontano;
e il suo nido è nell’ombra che attende,
che pigola sempre più piano.
Anche un uomo tornava al suo nido:
l’uccisero: disse: ‘Perdono’;
e restò negli aperti occhi un grido:
portava due bambole in dono…
Ora là, nella casa romita,
lo aspettano, aspettano invano:
egli immobile, attonito, addita
le bambole al cielo lontano.
E tu, Cielo, dall’alto dei mondi
sereni, infinito, immortale,
oh! d’un pianto di stelle lo inondi
quest’atomo opaco del Male.
The 10th of August
San Lorenzo, I know why so many stars are burning and falling in the tranquil air, why such great weeping sparkles in the concave sky.
A swallow was returning to its home: they killed her: she fell amongst thorns; in her beak she had an insect: the dinner for her little swallows.
Now she is there, as if on a cross, holding out that worm to the distant heaven; and her nest is in the shadow waiting, chirping ever more softly.
A man was also going back to his nest: they killed him: he said: ‘Forgiveness’; and in his open eyes there remained a scream: he was bringing two dolls as presents…
Now there, in the remote house, they are waiting for him, waiting in vain: he, motionless, astonished, points the dolls to the distant heaven.
And you, Heaven, from the heights of serene worlds, infinite, immortal, oh! with a weeping of stars you flood this atom, opaque with Evil.
