Now, in exile... yes, in the house,
in the sixties of a swift age
they blow out the candles for you.
Rejoice, but with utmost calmness,
because a reckless death has lost its way
in the heavy crowds... and deferred you.
A curious moon on the ruins
laughs like a buffoon. Don't believe that
it approaches to accept you.
It has, in its ancient task, as the new
March has, given back to the trees
the names of longing and ignored you.
So celebrate with your friends the shattered
chalice. At sixty, you won't have the remain-
ing tomorrow to carry on the shoulders of
anthem, and it won't carry you.
Tell life: Walk leisurely as women confident
of their magic and schemes walk. Each one
has a hidden call: I am yours / how beautiful
Walk leisurely, life, so I can see all of your
around me. I have often forgotten you in
while looking for me and you
And whenever I realized one of your secrets
you callously said: How ignorant you are!
And tell absence: You lack me,
yet I am present... to make you whole.