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This poem is taken from PN Review 35, Volume 10 Number 3, January - February 1984.

Solo (translated by Charles Tomlinson) Attilio Bertolucci

In September here the sun burns on
a candle near to its consummation
the meadow I cross regaining level ground
is an altar whose cloth is one of grass.

Saffrons needle it through with their lilac incarnate
it is bordered by thorns of the Lord and by
those of that cursed property the times humiliate
beneath agriculture's slow decay.
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