La parola da casa, Serena Piccoli

anny asked for an autumn poem, but i was so slow in writing it, that i'm afraid i'm missed the deadline for her wonderful issue of fieralingue. here's a draft of the piece i was working on for her (without the spacing in the lines).  it's a rewrite of keats' poem after it was run through online translators many times.  

To Autumn
(after Keats)

stages of fogs and full productivity
ripening 

conspiring with fruits
the operation of thatch-days before folding
with apples the cottage moss—
it fills all the fruits at center
as the plump cover of the soft core
fixes more and even more
flowers for the bees;
they do not think the hot days will ever cease.

of deposit
that which seeks all can find
the hair flexible a raised wind
of will or a sound
like the silicon of half-reaped drowsing—
the vapor of poppies, and
still here a twisted gleaner
with patient glance
you watch the last hours before the hours.

where do the songs take place? yes, where?
you do not think 
their music even while clouds die from day
and keys push the plains with optimistic tonality
among the shallows supported in on top or
as in full-grown bleat high of the bourn barrier
with morbidity the triple of the red-centre; 
meeting swallows twitter in the skies.