On an old aria

Are there not arising (listen, listen)

our words

From that old aria?

I have unearthed you.

And at last you see the sun again.

You speak to me, O Friend!

These are the words you spoke.

Don't you hear, Don't you hear?

But who gathered therm?

From the riverbeds carved from wood

your expressions arise,

to be scattered by the wind.

You said: "I read you in your heart.

You don't love me.

You think this is the last time!"

I see again your mouth a little withered.

"You don't love me. It is the last time.

But, before you abbandon me,

the vow will be fulfilled.

Oh, may you miss me in your heart!

You will forgive me if on my kissed temple

the hairs are white?

Look at those hairs, on that pale neck,

the signs of the years;

and I said to you "Be quiet! I love you"

Your eyes were full of tears

under my kisses.

"You deceive me, you deceive me,"

you answered, kissing my hands.

"What does it matter? I know you deceive me;

but maybe tomorrow you'll love me if I'm dead."

Deep was the canopy of the bed;

and the deep bed, like the tomb, dark.

The body was without a veil;

and in the deep bed it seemed already impure.

I saw through the open balcony a distand land

furrowed by a meandering stream,

enclosed by a wreath of rocks

that burned brightly with a red light,

in the summer day; and the winds brought scents

from the distant gardens

around which were walking powerful women

singing amid the covetous flowers.