How the clock moves on, relentlessly,with such assurance that it eats the years.The days are small and transitory grapes,The months grow faded, taken out of time.It fades, it falls away, the moment, firedby that implacable artilleryand suddenly, only a year is left to us,a month, a day, and death turns up in the diary.

. . . they will say: "The one you love, is not a woman for you, Why do you love her? I think you could find one more beautiful, more serious, more deep, more other . . .

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me. 

The light wraps you in its mortal flame.Abstracted pale mourner, standing that wayAgainst the old propellers of the twilight That revolves around you.Speechless, my friend,Alone in the loneliness of this hour of the deadAnd filled with the lives of fire,Pure heir of the ruined day.

Ma eccola qui, la tua forma familiare, quel che è mio,il tuo, quel che è mio, quel che è tuo e mi inonda,eccola qui, che mi riempie le membra di abbandono,eccola qui, la tua tenerezza,che si ormeggia alle stesse radici,matura nella stessa carovana di frutti,ed esce dalla tua anima rotta sotto le mie ditacome il succo del vino dal centro dell’uva.

He dormido contigoy al despertar tu bocasalida de tu sueñome dio el sabor de tierra,de agua

Dark is the world’s night without you my love,

Do tears not yet spilledwait in small lakes?Or are they invisible riversthat run toward sadness?

Es una copa llenade aguael mundo.