Looking at the seasoned old tub,
under the porch, so adored when I was younger;
a time so far away from me by now,
but the memories bring me back to the season
of the grapes and of the roasted chestnuts,
with all their colours, from an almost blue violet,
and turning into a brown tending to red, like the burgundy.
Colours bound to far away times,
witnesses of my walking barefoot,
and jumping into the tub, corroded by the passing seasons.
At that time, at the first dawn’s light
I could see my loved granny, filling it up to the top with grape grains,
on which we grandchildren would have joyously jumped,
helping the adults to harvest.
At the end of the season, she did let fall the juice of God Bacchus,
precious for the farmers, into the barrels.
The leaves on the trees, with their vibrant shades
were letting go of their stems, mates joined during the past seasons,
dancing at the rhythm of the wind,
and lay on the faded grassof the lawn where we children used to pick up chestnuts,
autumn fruit, and once at home, we roasted them on the embers.
When I was a little girl I didn’t relish the arriving of October’s end
because I had to leave the person who I was attached the most to,
my strong and sturdy grandma with red hair, like the ones
of my mane, one of the colors of autumn.