The graveyard of the lost loves
climbs up to the top of the hill
with steps made gentle by tiredness
among the gravestones, on which the names
of my beloved ones are covered
by the mischievous but golden fingers
of irreverent lichens:
their names can no longer be read,
but that doe-sn't matter, since they're
deeply carved, with fire and sword,
in the marble of my poor soul:
frances, who offered her virgin flesh
peeking between the curtains of decency
the face of the sacred and immodest
mystery, with sweet lamb's eyes;
beatrix, an idolided mare,
who jumped, with unnatural grace,
over the obstacles, interposed
between herself and a heavenly love:
and so many other girls, who, before and after,
filled my useless existence
giving her a higher name and spirit;
up to the top,where a marble angel
with her never enough blessed finger
shows the way to the authentic life,
while the green moss in vain grasps
to her, making only higher her glory,
and she holds in the crook of her arm
a marble table with just one word:
woman!