La pioggia nel Pineto (english version)

Be silent. At the threshold
of the woods I don’t hear
words you can say human; But I hear
newer words, spoken by drops and
faraway leaves.
Listen. It rains
from scattered clouds.
It rains on the salted
and arid Tamarisks.
It rains on the scaly,
bristling pines.
It rains on the divine
myrtle.
On the refulgent broom
with its huddled flowers.
On the junipers full
of fragrant berries.
It rains on our sylvan
faces.
Rains on our bare
hands.
On our light clothes.
And on the fresh thoughts
that the renewed soul raises
on the wonderful tale
that yesterday
deluded you, and today deludes me,
Oh Hermione.
Can you hear? The rain falls on vegetation alone with a constant roar and varies depending on branches more or less sparse.
Listen. To that cry answers the song of the crickets that neither rain brought by south nor the gray sky can frighten.
And the pine has a sound, the myrtle has a different sound, juniper another,
as different instruments played by many hands,
and we are immersed in the sylvan soul involved in the life of the forest and your face is wet from the rain like a leaf,
your hair smelling like the brooms clear, oh creature of the earth, called
Hermione
Listen.
The daughter of air
is silent. But the daughter
of mud, the frog, far away
sings in the deepest shadow.
Who knows where, who knows where!
And it rains on your lashes.
Hermione.