by Jesper Svenbro （Translated by John Matthias and Lars-Hakan Svensson）

    Late one afternoon in October

    I hear them for the first time：

    loud-voiced palavering， whistles， murmurs¹，

    quarrels， bickering² and warbling， croaking³ and chatter⁴

    in the high plane trees of the street.

    The leaves are all turning yellow this time of year，

    causing huge yellow sunlit rooms

    to appear at the level of the fifth and sixth floors

    opposite the barracks， where the tram turns off

    from the Via delle Milizie.

    Solid branches， twigs⁵， and perches⁶：

    every bit of space is taken up in this parliament of starlings！

    They are tightly bunched together there among the leaves；

    and the hundreds of thousands of starlings

    that perform their flying exercises

    against the backdrop of the evening's mass of motionless cloud

    will surely soon have lost their places：

    there are myriads⁷ of swarming⁹ punctuation¹⁰ marks out there，

    starlings flying in formation，

    sudden sharp turns， steep ascents¹¹，

    swarm⁸ on delightful¹² swarm

    against a rosy¹³ cloud bank in the east.

    The October evening is cool.

    The shop windows of the Via Ottaviano are shining.

    And the starlings are chattering¹⁴， quarreling and laughing，

    whispering and quietly enjoying themselves， when suddenly

    a blustering¹⁵ as of ten thousand pairs of sharp-edged scissors

    passes through the republic of the plains——

    it is as though an alarm had sounded，

    heard as an echo over the muffled¹⁶ traffic.

    Soon the darkness of night will fall.

    But the starlings up there won't stop talking，

    they move together， push one another， chatter and flit.

    Virgil must have had them in mind when somewhere he likens

    the souls of the deceased to flights of birds

    which toward sundown

    abandon the mountains and gather in high trees.

    I seem to be standing¹⁷ in an Underworld

    in the midst of a swarm of birds.

    The block is Virgilian； the street is crossed

    by the Viale Giulio Cesare，

    where you lived

    for some time before you died.

    That's why I am stopping here.

    The souls of the dead have gathered in the trees.

    Their number is incredible， suddenly it seems ghastly；

    is this what it will be like？

    For a moment I am a prisoner

    of the poem I am writing.

    There must be an exit.

    The soldier coming up to me

    has noticed that I have been standing

    for quite some time looking up into the foliage——

    into the darkness of feathers， bird's eyes， and beaks¹⁸.

    The peasant boy inside him apprises¹⁹ me

    of the fact that starlings come in vast migrations²⁰

    "from Poland and Russia"

    to spend the winter in the south：

    "And things go very well for them！

    In the daytime they fly out to the countryside

    and spend the night in here，"

    he explains with great amusement， turning his gaze

    up toward the swarm of birds. Their anxiety seems to have ceased；

    in just a moment they all seem to have fallen asleep.

    Only single chirps²¹ and clucks are heard

    from starlings talking in their sleep.

    What are they dreaming of？ Ten thousand starlings are dreaming in the

    darkness

    about the sunlight over the fields.

    As for myself， I am thinking of the tranquility

    in certain restaurants in the countryside，

    in the Albano Mountains and on the Campagna——

    the tranquility at noon on a sunny day in October.

    I am filled with the clarity of the fall day.

    And am touched by something immeasurable， transparent²²，

    which I cannot describe at first

    but must be everything we never said to each other.

    There are so many things I'd like to say.

    How shall I be able to speak？

    Today you are not shade， you are light.

    And in the poem I am writing you will be my guest.

    We are going to talk about Digenís Akrítas，

    the Byzantine heroic poem

    with the strangely compelling rhythm；

    and since the manuscript of the poem

    is preserved in the monastery²³ at Grottaferrata

    I shall order wine from Grottaferrata，

    golden and shimmering²⁴ in its carafe²⁵；

    we shall talk about the miraculously²⁶ translucent²⁷ autumn poem by Petronius

    which appears first in Ekel？f's Elective Affinities²⁸；

    and about Ekel？f's poems， to which you devoted²⁹ such attention.

    Did Ekel？f ever come to Grottaferrata？

    I seem to detect your lively gaze.

    And we shall see how the starlings come flying

    across the fields in teeming³⁰ swarms³¹.

    They will come from Rome and spend the day out here

    where they will eat snails³²， worms， and seeds

    and suddenly they will fly up from a field

    as at a given signal

    and make us look into the sun.

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