When in the muddy street, I see him running,
His little shoes all worn,
His trousers ragged and his jacket torn,
His handsome face most mischievous and cunning;
And when I see him ‘mid the surging eddy
Of carts, he steals or begs,
Now deftly throwing stones at poor curs’ legs,
Bold and corrupt, a youthful thief already;
And when I see him laugh, I can’t help thinking :
“His mother is all day
There in the mill; in prison his father —” nay,
Poor flower he of thorns!” —”My heart is sinking
Within me, with anxiety I wonder:
“What will become of thee,
Without a guide on this tempestuous sea
Of life, forlorn and ignorant? I wonder
What thou wilt be and what will be thy station
Some twenty years from now;
An honest workman with a sunburnt brow?
A useful member of our struggling nation?
The labourer’s honest shirt shall thou be wearing
Or convict’s garb! Or shall
I see thee wretched at the hospital,
At work, in prison, a vagabond wayfaring?”
And lo! Across the street I would run over
And in supreme distress,
In agony, in pity I would press
Him to my heart; with kisses I would cover
His mouth, his forehead; close beside him kneeling,
Would whisper in his ears,
Choked by compassion’s quickly rising tears,
These sacred words, full of a sister’s feeling:
“I too was born ‘mong thorns, the sky above me,
My mother too for me
Was working hard there in the factory,
I know what want and suffering mean —” I love thee.”
Translated by A.M. Von Blomberg
Quando lo vedo per la via fangosa
Passar sucido e bello,
Colla giacchetta tutta in un brandello,
Le scarpe rotte e l’aria capricciosa,
Quando il vedo fra i carri o sul selciato
Coi calzoncini a brani,
Gettare i sassi nelle gambe ai cani,
Gií ladro, gií corrotto e gií sfrontato;
Quando lo vedo ridere e saltare,
Povero fior di spina,
E penso che sua madre è all’officina,
Vuoto il tugurio e il padre al cellulare,
Un’angoscia per lui dentro mi serra;
E dico: “Che farai
Tu che stracciato ed ignorante vai
Senz’appoggio ne guida sulla terra?…
De la capanna garrulo usignolo,
Che sarai fra vent’anni?
Vile e perverso spacciator d’inganni,
Operaio solerte, o borsaiuolo?
L’onesta blusa avrai del manovale,
O quella del forzato?
Ti rivedrò bracciante o condannato,
Sul lavoro, in prigione, o all’ospedale?…,,
… Ed ecco, vorrei scender ne la via
E stringerlo sul core,
In un supremo abbraccio di dolore,
Di pietí , di tristezza e d’agonia;
Tutti i miei baci dargli in un istante
Sulla bocca e sul petto,
E singhiozzargli con fraterno affetto
Queste parole soffocate e sante:
“Anch’io vissi nel lutto e nelle pene,
Anch’io son fior di spina;
E l’ebbi anch’io la madre all’officina,
E anch’io seppi il dolor… ti voglio bene.,,
