Grape-Harvest Poem by Gianfranco Aurilio

At sunrise
the girls
singing go
through the rows
full of grapes
and sourish scent,
which imbues the nostrils.
Up and down
along the long paths,
between a chat
and a mockery,
between a story
and a laughter,
between a little weep
and a joke,
the ticking of the scissors
by way of an orchestra
resounds.
Only at twilight,
with the agile hands tired,
with the neat clothes dirty,
they get ready
to rest,
the clamour
dies away,
the night
falls,
the countryside
sleeps.

22.12.'09