Sergio Donna

Sergio Donna was born in Turin, where he still lives, in 1948. He is the president of the Associazione Monginevro Cultura, a nonprofit organization whose goal is the defense and the promotion of Piedmontese culture. In this capacity he also presides over the jury of the poetry prizes awarded by the association. He is the author of several books of prose and poetry in both Italian and Piedmontese. His publications also include monographs dedicated to architectural and artistic features (fountains, gardens, churches, statues) of his beloved hometown and collaborations with photographers and musicians. An enthusiast of the Haiku genre, he has published four bilingual collections: Ciameje nen haiku. Slussi ’d Poesìa (2017), Faravòsche (2019) Spluve (2022) and Bërlusor (2024). His most recent collections of poems are Tóira e Ritóira (2024) and Torcèt e paste ‘d melia (2025).

Le feuje mòrte (From Tóira e Ritóira)

Schërzin-o sot le sòle rame e ariss:
mi canto la canso ’Le feuje mòrte’
con nòte aùsse, greve, basse, fòrte,
lassand pianà profonde nen ëd giss.

Tra ij branch a fan babòja ëd ragg lusent:
carësse tëbbie, ch’a son sava ëd vita;
contut che ël mè senté vada an salita
më smija d’andé an caland tocand ij sent.

L’é bel marcé ’nt ël bòsch dij mè pensé
antant che con ij branch a gieuga ’l sol:
a l’é l’otogn ch’as vest ’d na vesta d’òr.

Còsa am n’anfà se mi ’d sòld i son pòr:
son rich ëd blëssa antorn anche da sol
e marcio an schërzinand sël mè senté.


(Le foglie morte «Stridono i ricci e i rami sotto i piedi / e intanto canto io ’Le foglie morte’ / con note acute, grevi, basse, forti / lasciando dietro me orme evidenti. // Occhieggiando tra i rami raggi accesi / carezze lievi, linfa della vita: / per quanto il mio sentiero sia in salita / mi sento un discesista e vado ai cento. // Cammino nel mio bosco dei miei pensieri / mentre che i raggi giocano coi rami / e li riveston d’una veste d’oro. // Cosa m’importa del denaro in tasca: / son ricco di bellezza intorno e vado / lungo il sentiero delle foglie morte.»)


The Dead Leaves

Chestnut husks and branches screech under my feet
and all the while I sing ‘The Dead Leaves’
laying in the cool grasswith sharp, rough, low, strong notes
leaving behind me obvious footprints.

Burning sunrays are eyeing through the branches,
mild caresses, life’s sap:
as much as my path is uphill
I feel I’m like going downhill at a fast speed.

I’m walking in the forest of my thoughts
while the sunrays play with the branches
and clothe them with a robe of gold.

What do I care about money in my pockets:
I am rich with beauty around me and I go
along the path of the dead leaves.

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