Often I close my eyes
and you leave
Somewhere…, somewhere…! ?

Under the eyelids
voices and endless spaces;

but where could your walking stick,
your age-bowed back
and weary knees,
lead you up, where?

The pathways you follow are dead-ends for the lost;
other laws are in heights of heaven.

I fail to know
I'd rather guess which are their signs,
which hands do they stretch towards you,
which promises do they give?

Oh, as you leave,
on each wrinkle
on each shudder and light
or shadow that hardens in peace
I see a butterfly
cutting her wings hopelessly.

How could you leave this way?
Lips still in wine parfume
caressing eyes that clear the skies