How now my dearest, you may speak
of all the subtle sorrows that banish sleep
from your gentle eyes, to me
whose abyss is pitiless and far more steep
Come, come and rest your head upon my lap
all the gentle washings you have given your eyes
let me dry them and from time to time
listen to the tale of a heart that daily dies
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem