Mercilessly glued to the rubber soles
of my mountain shoes, my shadow
is dragged by the stirrup of a deaf horse,
hitting the rocks on the sides
of this beautiful mountain path,
and, crawling over them, releases
a trail of black blood on the flowers.
while I am filling my eyes with the joy
of the vision of mountains and woods,
the shadow shouts her silent pain:
the sun will finally set, and the evening
will come to solace with her arms
light and dark, made of her same nature,
and the shadow will be able to rest
in the transparent sleep of the ghosts.