Translated into Italian, dialectal poetry, although they keep
intact the fascination of its content, inevitably looses part of
its assonance, of the magic of those untranslatable words that,
coming out of country civilization, imbued them with its smells,
sounds, its intimate and elusive nature.
On the other hand, paradoxically, translated into English,
Lineriís poetry seems to me, as in its original form, really
melodic, rhythmical, effective from a stylistic point of view;
I think it depends on its richness of nouns, adverbs and scarcity
of verbs; it also depends on onomatopoeical sounds that English
exalts so simply and amazingly at the same time.
Here are momentary emotions going straight to the heart,
pictures made of colours and words, faces of humble people, the
last ones, the leaf of a plane, the call of a cricket, memories
and sensations chasing each other, getting lost and meeting
again, sounds never clashing and never disappointing.