Is Love merely a mask of the Ordeal?
Is maybe another face of it, when falls in sleep and dream?
Then why does it, deep in my heart, stay awake forever?
Restlessly, even inside the sheets of pleasure...
You two have tortured me, with that perfidious measure,
With which merited masters are gathering heaps of roses.
Crushing and squeezing them, they extract doses
Of their inner pith, of their endless fragrance;
Far away from calyxes, their essence wanders,
Beyond the centuries, not even death could beat,
The roses’ spirit that will fill anyone will meet...
Happened the same to me, because of your ruthless tortures,

I distil myself through verses, through the grace of poetry
I embalm you with the pure scent of the eternity.

Wednesday, February 23, 1955