beyond the bars of rust and dust,
that give home to the forgotten,
beyond the little chapel,
where memories and last breaths of life are veiled,
beyond the poison ivies, the grass, the trees,
that twisted, raise their branches as they can,
to that heavenly vault that seems to embrace them.
There... I find peace,
in the house of the dead,
where emptyness is a lady, who invites
to walk and plunge into the chest,
where statues cry over graves,
made of marble, white, like angels,
with broken wings and sad, limp looks,
how sad this cemetery seems,
and yet... so much beauty to discover,
in every stony pupil that weeps diamonds,
everlasting tears on the silent spaces,
silent as that infinite and extensive muteness,
that opens like a wet mouth to kiss us,
a silky and shrouded kiss,
which in its tune, accompanies the waltz,
of the homeless and lonely dead.
Here, in the vastness of a plain of crosses,
withered epitaphs and flowers,
in the moss that caresses the tombstones,
here where so many lay...
and it seems, however, that nobody inhabits,
here my footprints, a barefoot rumor,
ethereal, the sounds of my slow steps muffled...
tranquil and calm, in my fingers that touch,
the date, and name, of someone who rests there,
peace, and a deep whisper, is all I feel.