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Among the blooming rosemary

Soaked by the rain,

Under bewildering domes of

Black cypresses,

With your face bleached by the storm

And your hair in waterfalls,

Barefoot you walk along the old path,

Down the ancient stone stairs,

Avoiding stepping on soaked

Fig leaves, glued to the ground.

Behind you: the fortress of spirits from which you now run

Ever so slowly, as if you were dancing.

Over you: the horrifying, black, unforgiving sky.

In front of you: the half-open iron gate, waves, and the gushing sea.

Through the howling wind and the shuddering blinds, I know,

You must hear the broken sound of an old piano.

I watch your descent, in silence,

Through the window drowned with rain drops:

Your slim body visibly shaking

Under the veil of a soaked dress,

Your shimmering bare feet with pale pink heels,

The cold fingers of your fine hands

Tearing off rosemary leaves in passing,

Your eyes as dark as the bristling skies,

Your voice as absent as a frightened bird,

Your heart that overrides the roar of thunder,

Your lack of fear stronger than the broken sea.

I keep quiet. I don’t stop you while your hand

Opens the rusty iron gate.

I don’t scream your name through the creaking of hinges

And gusts of wind.

I don’t prevent your descent

Towards the seething abyss of water.

All the universe perished in this garden of paradise,

Now unrecognizable:

The roar, and turmoil, and the sea foam,

Furious whipping of branches and the white statues

Scattered across the garden,

Without a cry, without a sigh, without a word:

When will you stop leaving me?

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