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To say "I love you" with my soul torn apart is to exist half-heartedly, a half-dead life. I will be your loving poet who sings your praise, you, my divine muse, most loved and most required.
In the dawn I find the gleam of your gaze, so clear and bright like a star in the deepest depths, but my poor heart, lacerated by emptiness, dies of nostalgia when naming you in the sound.
O silver moon of my dreamy nights, solitary witness of the weeping that does not cease, when I see you on high, I mitigate a little the suffering that in loneliness I suffer far from your presence.
You are the faint light that illuminates my path, the breeze that lulls my sorrows with caresses, in you I look for comfort, in your rays calm, peace for this lover of bitter penitence.
Thus eternally I will sing to you in silver verses, with my soul on edge and my breath in sighs, because in this moon of my hidden silences I dwell, absent, remembering your eyes.