She, with cruel hands,
Wounded my poetry one day.
The river was a helpless witness
How she bit the stones to pieces.
I saw her wandering the streets,
While scree and solitude
Ignored the ringing of bells.
The leaves were pushed aside with disdain.
Under the shade of the lemon tree,
Her farewell denied me the last kiss.
Still, bustles and torments
Name me with her memory.
She, with sharp claws,
Scratched my poetry mercilessly.
She left it prisoner in the corners
Of the cruelest oblivion.
She, with her relentless treachery,
Slaughtered the purest verses.
She turned to ashes the metaphors
That once burned with passion.
There are no more than embers left
Of that bonfire that was my inspiration.
She extinguished it with her indifference,
Leaving me in desolation.
