Dî ch’al è vert il vert
no mi samee, di plui
mi môf se il ros de fuee
ros tal amont di Lui
al va e al ven tal vert
cul lâ e tornâ dal vint
cussì nol è plui vert
il vert nì fuee la fuee
ma ros di cûr ch’al trime
batiât dentri l’arint
da li’ stelis: ma velis
–li’ stelis – maravee
su la gnot dai vignâi
il colôr dai colôrs
Saying that green is green
does not look like me, more
I can move if the red of the leaf,
red in the sunset of July,
comes and goes in the green
with the coming and going of the wind,
so the green is no longer
green, as the leaf is no longer the leaf,
but red of the heart that trembles
baptised inside the silver
of the stars: but here they are
– the stars – wonder
on the night of the vineyards
the color of the colors.
