Orphan
Slow snow, flake, flakes, flake,
feel: a zana swing slowly.
A child cries, the little finger in his mouth,
sings an old woman, her chin on her hand.
The old sings around your bed There
roses and lilies, all a beautiful garden.
In the garden the child is asleep.
snowing, slow, slow, slow.
of Giovanni Pascoli
The cold, these days, reminds me of this poem.
I d 'having studied it in memory as it was many years ago,
first or second grade: It is certainly the first poem I remember
have learned. Of course
the repeated like a nursery rhyme.
Today, despite the tragic nature of the title, and
almost tangible sadness that I feel in every line,
gives me a sort of peace and tranquility.
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