These are the first three translated poems in a project that will include the world. Thirteen more have been done. Two hundred and twenty-something remain. The intention is to choose one poem from every country, as countries existed at the turn of 2000. I have quickly reached my language limits. I would like to ask for help. I need a good poem, a major-minor poem, from any country not Italy, Russia, Belgium, Britain, Turkey, Norway, Spain, Iran, Germany, Ireland, Austria, Israel, Saudi Arabia, France or Iceland, in its original state, with a prose translation kindly free of copyright claims, to work on.

I can be contacted at 40 London Road, Coalville, Leics. LE67 3JA, or by e-mail at john.gallas@bluecom.net


Salvatore Quasimodo (1901-1968). Italy.
O my dear animals

Autumn smears the green hills,
O my dear animals. The last wheep
of the birds, the boom of the slatey heath
that slides at the spun sound of the sea
will break again. And the woodsmell
in the rain, and the marlsmell of burrows
kick against the houses here,
where men are, O my dear animals.

The face that winds its eyes hugely,
and the hand that draws where
a drill of thunder snaps the sky
are yours, O my wolves,
...