A RESTLESS LIFE

THE AVENUE OF TEARS

To a dead poet,

When for the first time the secret harmony

Of a lyre awoke, moaning, the whole earth, - Within the heart of the first poet

The flower of the first tear blossomed.

And the poet felt his eyes water;

Anxiously, the first complaint rose to his lips: The flower of Passion and Sorrow had been born,

Which, like the rose, has thorns and perfume.

And in the earth, where the dreamer passed, the purple corolla spread its seeds: So that, shining, a vegetation of burning tears was left on the ground.

This is how the Via Dolorosa was made,

The dark and sad avenue of Saudade, where the weeping procession of the organs of affection and happiness drags by night.

Recalling the cries and sobs in your chest, you knew this long avenue well,

- You who, weeping in vain, struggled on your stomach to climb the Calvary of Life.

Your foot also left a mark on this ground;

You also dragged your cloak across this ground...

And, O Muse, the unhappy harp you held in your lap,

Has passed into other hands, has become wet with another cry.

But your soul remained, free from misfortune,

Sweetly dreaming of the delights of the moon: Among the flowers, now, another flower shines, Keeping in its corolla a memory of you...

The scent of that flower, which your martyrdom contains, will be immortalized by the souls dispersed:

- Because you purified the dirt of the earth

Who left on earth a tear and a verse.