Rosso

Giro lo stilo della mia coppa

frammenti della luce di candela

si estendono atraverso il vino

illuminando la punta

delle dita in rosso

sparsi come sussurri di lussuria

colti sulla punto della mia lingua

Spinning the stem of my glass

Fragments of the candlelight

reach through the wine,

Illuminating the tips

of my fingers in red

Scattered Like whispered lust

Caught on my tongue

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
--Elizabeth Bishop