Albiti
If one day the air says to itself:
I'm tired, and my name wears me out. ...
I never want to sign my name again.
The curls of carnations and roses,
The tiny ripples of this stream,
The flowing waves in the sea
And the dimples on the cheeks of the white sail ...
.
I lost my way, from softness
The sleeping mat rises,
Get out of my bedroom.
I flow through the still vines,
Piercing the closed dome window on the tower;
Extremely thin, I went to the streets again.
I beat around the bush, pervasive,
Scratched by the door corner, scratched by the window shaft,
How deep porches lead to green courtyards,
The rising waves there have made me billions.
My wish-sweet and desperate ...
Look, look, I found a name for myself,
How to arrange a new word?
Isn't there a gust of wind
One breath, for this word-
Can you name me with wings?
I look for a symbol in depression.
Find something, find someone to replace me,
He should be like me, here-cut.
I can feel it keenly when I remember it vividly.
Soft cradle, warm whisper,
Can remain unchanged for a long time.
Trembling with the same breath—
Like the first morning I was born.
The first breath, when I heard the light say:
"fly! You are the air. "
If one day the air says this to itself.