If one day I take the unavoidable
trip into the unknown and eternity
without any notice to the despotic destiny,
it will be for fulfillment of flowers and springs.
It will be for unseen caresses sprouted
where still remained rests of life and dreams,
and I was sated for the questions of earth seeds.
Swelled of daily murmurs
facing a dawn plentiful of meadows and babbling waters,
I will have trembled in a tiny sweetness of honeys
ready for the peaceful departure and delectable surrender.
Among my fingers will crackle the eagerness of the unnamed
beneath the inexhaustible light of this land
and some voice, weaved among wind fibers,
will hoot playfully: "It is time".
Then I will depart.
I will decipher the enigma and the great Sphinx of time
will dissolve grain by grain every memory
upon the pond of gone and coming days.
The shadows from the distance will shake their farewells, quivering,
as slight figures made of fog and shreds of clouds
before being swept away by a sun raptured of life.
That's all, I will say, that's all.
And is it not enough though?
All what shines, all what throbs, all what bursts,
all what sings, all what moans, all what bellows;
the words, the names, the essence of every single thing,
all, all, all.
All will be a raving joy at edge of the deepest
night, at edge of an unquestioned nothingness.
And will exhale its last sigh the voice that sprang up
tied to other voices, and will fade out the eyes that peered
the tremor of other eyes,
as a bud tight of lives and promises
fulfilled between sunset and sunrise.
