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I guess the flickering
of the lights that in the distance
are marking my return.
They are the same ones that illuminated
with their pale reflections,
deep hours of pain.
And although I did not want to return,
one always returns to one's first love.
The quiet street where the echo said:
'Yours is his life, yours is his want',
under the mocking look of the stars
that with indifference today see me return.

To return,
with withered forehead,
the snows of time
silvered my temple.
To feel, that life is a breath,
that twenty years is nothing,
how feverish the gaze
wandering in the shadows
seeks you and names you.
To live,
with the soul clinging
to a sweet memory,
that I cry again.

I am afraid of the encounter
with the past that returns
to confront my life.
I am afraid of the nights
that, full of memories,
chain my dreaming.
But the traveler who flees
sooner or later stops his walk.
And even if the oblivion that destroys everything
has killed my old illusion,
it keeps hidden a humble hope,
which is all the fortune of my heart.