Today they have returned. For all the paths of the night have been to mourn in my bed. So many, so many! I do not know what they live, I do not know what is dead. I cry myself to mourn all. The night baby crying as a black scarf. There are golden heads in the sun like ripe ... There are heads touched by shadow and mystery, a thorn-crowned head invisible, blush rose heads of dreaming heads bent to cushion abyss heads who would rest in heaven, some that fail to smell spring and many that go beyond the flowers of winter. All those heads ache and sores ... I hurt or dead.

Why should I complain after winning? For the grace of his spirit vestal Encourages me to pursue it tirelessly, And, like a ghost, eludes my arms; So intense is his masculinity to be seen It's like kissing the hand of a King Caricia not conform any familiarity; It just marks the height The latter can claim negligence, Just as the humble men harass Grace mistaken for recklessness; Then the favors fed with warm The loyalty of a great love Ever there presumption differs The event or word.

Oh, too late for love, late for joy, Late, too late! You have wandered on the road for a long time You hesitated at the door: The enchanted dove on the branch He died without a partner; The enchanted princess in her tower He slept behind bars; His heart shrank weighing While you forced her to wait.