Round a corner you appear, my poor old love,
a peerless and cruel blow of sword,
increased up for hundred thousand times,
because you just cannot expect its stroke.
one day a swan surrendered to me,
its wings after its back, no more arms,
no more roar of the world, non more "I",
only an immense offer in a flew flesh,
disdaining the veils and who invented them,
and now, in front of me, you show the wounds
that the Time blasphemously has dared
to seed in the skin of your face:
and I cannot withstand you anyway,
but only feel embarrassment and pain,
while I'm seeing the old guy dirty of scythe
daring to stretch his twisted fingers
on the memory of you. But never stained,
a rock standing high above the waves,
on which the storks fold their tired wings,
what lived once with us will live again.