TO THE DEATH

                I

Death,
fatal term, absence forever.
Only the barren field that welcomes us,
of his land, new compost.

Never again the fragrance of the blade of grass
nor the burning of burning logs;
nor the fine drizzle of the breaking wave
in the face avid of freshness.

                II

"She was our mother", the children will later say
with tenderness in the eyes.
The pain of absence, forgotten objects
tomorrow authentic jewels.
"She said ...", they will repeat the sentences
before you annoyed
because of reluctance
or craving for silence
or dreams of freedom.
Musical syllables will thread words into imperious memories,
despair of living back in time ...
It takes a long time to respond to a song of love.

"Do you remember that gesture?
And her sad smile?
And the fixed thought of her on us?
His hands from her, soft wings brushing our faces?
The step was next to our bed in the high night
and the murmur of prayer to entrust ourselves to God? "

                III

Little by little the absent
farther each time in memory
—that someone always replaces him—;
his things are losing the fragrance that he gave off,
impregnating them;
the way to incline them is not the same
and in time
he is moving them around.
Every day his name goes less to the lip.
The tears in the spring no longer flow;
just one at a time
that is furtively wiped away.
Until they all dry
exhausted the source of pain.
A veil then covers the image on the retina,
the undergrowth hides the formerly clear figure in every landscape,
they dress the environments colors of different beings
that distract,
the soul goes after new experiences.
And one day
oblivion is mourned.

(You, death so feared,
you are just a pretext:
oblivion is more cruel than your scythe).