Ieri era San Lorenzo (yesterday it was San Lorenzo’s day) and questa notte (last night), as is traditional here in Italy, I went out looking for una stella cadente (a shooting star). In fact la notte di San Lorenzo (San Lorenzo’s night) is also known as la notte delle stelle cadenti (the night of the shooting stars) due to the appearance of a shower of meteorites which comes within the Earth’s orbit during this period. As usual, however, I didn’t manage to see a single one, therefore non ho potuto esprimere un desiderio (I couldn’t make a wish). Oh well, andrà meglio l’anno prossimo!  (hopefully next year….!)

The name notte di San Lorenzo immediately brings to mind a poem that we used to study at school, X Agosto (The 10th of August) by Giovanni Pascoli. This poem describes the tragic death of the poet’s father, who was mysteriously killed on the night of San Lorenzo in 1867 while returning home from a farmer’s fair. In Pascoli’s poem the shooting stars represent the tears of Heaven for his father’s death, and for the evil which afflicts our planet. I must confess that I used to cry every time I read this poem.

 

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 way 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.