I want to be walking down an avenue in summer, my arm
about my beloved. I want the avenue tree-lined, my hand
along your waist, the boughs above our heads arched, the
filigree of leaves reflected, the brindled light throwing open
the path before us. The lake will be misted in the still torpor
Of late afternoon. I want the birds to be singing – so many
we cannot count or name them. I want to lean against you,
as you do in summer, walking down an avenue. I want to
whisper in your ear: I want you, as you do in such weather,
nonchalant, not needing an answer, my arm about your waist

As you lean into me, the warm flesh of your back beneath
its fine cotton, damp under my hand as we walk down a treelined
avenue; careless, in summer heat of love, careless with
youthful negligence of happiness. I want it to be summer again.
I want my senses to be blithe and greedy, as in youth before

Everything happened. I want to be walking down a tree-lined
avenue, the branches casting their slumberous shadow, the air
dense with the scent of evening languor as we saunter: my arm
around your waist, through the corridor of dark leaf, sunlight
beckoning at its mouth – as we walk from winter into summer.

HERE the Italian version