… From My Viola
My heart, trembling in the aftermath,
Is like a bird in your hands
Who scares and shivers.
He is so timid that it is necessary
to speak to him not too high so
that without fear he abandons himself.
One word is enough to annoy him.
A glance makes him vibrate.
An inexpressible bitterness.
And your breath only,
when you speak to him gently,
makes him tremble like a feather.
He surrounds you; he is everywhere.
He flutters around your neck,
He throbs around your dress,
But so stealthy, so fleeting,
And so subtle and so light,
That to every attack he escapes.
And when you would make it suffer
Until you bleed, until you die,
You could keep the doubt,
And of his sorrow not knowing
That a tear fell one evening
On your glove stained with a drop.