I forgot to drink from the waters of Lethe,
my friends, when I walked along its side,
in the twilight hour of every
future and past life.
Now I sit silently
in the middle of the days and hours
with a dead bunch of minutes
among my fingers and I think:
on which bend of my way
I committed the sin of keeping hopes
into the abyss of this desolation?
Where was then the reasoning
shining over all things in the shadows
of what never has been and never will be?
I must have missed the horizon line
at the door of this labyrinth
made of dreams and remnants of flowers
that have already faded.
I still remember its essence,
my friends, still some desires stir up
in the clenched rose of this chest.
For I forgot to drink in the waters of Lethe,
for I didn't feel its dying aura
whispering at my feet
when I was looking for
gleaming wakes that could fill
a sky scarcely opened
in uncountable spring nights,
now the cracks of time
are spreading on my face,
merciless,
while the smell of the spring
and dreams flutter untouched
despite the ruthless cold besieging them,
despite the long waiting empty of the same old.
I forgot to drink in the waters of Lethe,
my friends, and the treacherous hope
that never dies, defeated the oblivion
of what never will be anymore.
