6 best ecological poetry excerpts
O pines, O brothers in earth and environment,
I love you! You are sweet, you are good, you are serious.
I would say a tree that thinks and feels
pampered by auroras, poets and birds.
The winged sandal touched your forehead;
you have been mast, proscenium, curule,
oh solar pines, oh pines of Italy,
bathed in grace, in glory, in blue!
Shady, without gold from the sun, taciturn,
amidst glacial mists and in
dreamy mountains, oh night pines,
oh pines of the North, you are beautiful too!
With gestures of statues, of mimes, of actors,
tending to the sweet caress of the sea,
oh pines of Naples, surrounded by flowers,
oh divine pines, I cannot forget you!
How could I wish any other fate for this poor parched
that carries all the arts and crafts
in each of its clods
and offers its revealing matrix
for the seeds that may never come.
how she would want an overflowing flow
to come to redeem her
and soak her with its boiling sun
or its wavy moons
and go over them palm by palm
and understand her palm by palm
or that the rain descended inaugurating it
and left scars like ditches
and a dark and sweet mud
with eyes like puddles.
or that in his biography
poor parched mother
suddenly burst the fertile people
with hoes and arguments
and plows and sweat and good news
and the seeds of premiere collected
the legacy of old roots
Hail, fecund zone,
that to the enamored sun you circumscribe
the vague course, and as much being is animated
in each varied climate,
caressed of its light, you conceive!
You weave for summer its garland
of pomegranate ears; you give the grape
to the boiling vat;
not of purple fruit, or red, or gualda,
your beautiful forests
lack any nuance; and the wind drinks in them
a thousand aromas;
and greens go without counting
feeding your vegetables, from the plain
that has the horizon as a boundary,
to the erect mountain,
of inaccessible snow always gray.
Let us go to the trees... the dream
will become in us by celestial virtue.
Let us go to the trees; the night
will be soft for us, the sadness light.
Let's go to the trees, the soul
Lulled with wild perfume.
But be silent, do not speak, be pious;
Do not wake the sleeping birds.
The shade of this venerable tree
where it breaks and calms,
the fury of the formidable winds
and whose old age inspires my soul
a sacred and mysterious respect;
whose bare and rugged trunk
a good rustic seat offers me;
and whose leafy majesty covered
is the only king of this desert,
that surrounds me so vastly;
here my soul desires
to come to meditate; from here my Muse
spreading her wandering wings
will take flight through the subtle air.
To the old elm tree, split by the lightning
and half rotten,
with the rains of April and the sun of May
some green leaves have grown.
The centennial elm on the hill
that licks the Douro! A yellowish moss
stains the whitish bark
to the decayed and dusty trunk.
It will not be, like the singing poplars
that guard the road and the riverbank,
inhabited by brown nightingales.
An army of ants in a row
is climbing it, and in its bowels
spiders weave their gray webs.
Before the woodcutter fells you, elm of the Douro,
with his axe, and the carpenter
turns you into a bell's mane,
a cart's spear or a cart's yoke;
before you burn red at home, tomorrow,
from some miserable hut,
at the edge of a road;
before a whirlwind
cuts you to pieces, and the breath of the white mountains cuts you down;
before the river to the sea pushes you
through valleys and ravines,
elm tree, I want to write down in my wallet
the grace of your green branch.
My heart waits
also, towards the light and towards life,
another miracle of spring.