The valley lies still under the sun:
only the lazy voice of the canal
breaks the silence of this enchantment
that envelops every movement
into a magic and slow speed:
slow if the flapping of the winds
of the gray heron, while, quietly,
it moves from the canal to the tree
to return up to its wide nest,
like slow is the diving of the nutria
in the muddy water of the canal.
everything inspires peace in this fragrance
heady up to the stunning, of the grass
that is drying under the sun's caress:
this place keeps faith to its name
of Gold Coast, because golden are
the endless crops on the slopes
of the blessed waves of the earth,
and golden, made in an ancient gold,
the dried lichens clinging on
the pink stones of the little bridge
spanning the river. Here you can live
among the peace and the wheat,
and every now and then the hoarse voice
of the canal lock's siren informs
that the doors are being opened,
so a majestic but peaceful wave
will roll to massage the keels
of the moored barges, rocking
the sleep of the tired helmsmen.
peace on earth in this leftover
of Heaven that the Eternal Father
forgot to withdraw up to Paradise.
here only the rythm of his breath remains:
slow.