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Poem by Michele Collatina

"Passchendaele (Ypres 1917)"

(English translation below)

Passchendaele,

ti ricorderai di me dentro quel fango

ed un mare che sbarrava il mio ritorno

ma tante croci come me, avrai capito,

non si chiedevano il perche'

Passchendaele,

a novembre non avevo piu' un amico

solo il fango come un gelido vestito

Bruciava il cielo nella notte

sulle croci disperate

e io sognavo di andare via

Ma la tua pioggia

cadeva lenta

sciogliendo il fango

sulle mie lacrime -

A diciott'anni la vita e' un filo di seta -

cantava all'alba il vento ancora

Passchendaele,

quel mattino mi mostrasti le tue lame

e io vidi che erano lame di fango

per tante croci come me, hai gia' capito,

qui nelle Fiandre il vero re

Passchendaele,

ti ricorderai di me sotto quel fango

e una madre che pregava il mio ritorno

Bruciava il cielo nella notte

sulle croci addormentate

e non potevo piu' andare via

Ma la tua pioggia

cadeva lenta

sciogliendo il sangue nelle mie lacrime

- A diciott'anni la vita e' un filo di seta -

cantava all'alba il vento ancora

by Michele Collatina

"Passchendaele (Ypres 1917)"

(Rough English Translation by Michele Collatina)

Passchendaele,

you will remember me into that mud

and a sea that barred my return

but many crosses like me, you should have known,

were're wondering the reason why.

Passchendaele,

in November I had no more friends,

but only the mud as a icy coat.

The sky was burning in the night on the hopeless crosses

while I was dreaming to go away

But your rain was falling slowly

melting the mud on my tears

- At eighteen the life is a silk thread -

was still singing at daybreak the wind

Passchendaele,

at that daybreak you showed me your blades,

and I saw that they were mud blades :

for many crosses like me, you have already known,

here in the Flanders the absolute king

Passchendaele,

you will remember me under that mud

and a mother who was praying my return

The sky was burning in the night on the sleeping crosses

and I couldn't go away any more

But your rain was falling slowly

melting the blood in my tears

- At eighteen the life is a silk thread -

was still singing at daybreak the wind

Passchendaele,

please remember not to burn another sunrise

in that jolly lonely place,

and rest forever

Now sing, sing joyfully

cause the tears have gone

sing, sing loud if you can

and think

that you see the mud

and you see the rain

while you see the words carved in my grave.

by Michele Collatina

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