To the deserted town square
leads a labyrinth of alleys.
On one side, the old dark all
of a run-down church;
on the other, the pale wall
of a garden of cypreses and palms,
and, before me, the house,
and on the house the bars
before the window which slightly clouds
its placid and smiling figurine.
I’ll distance myself. I don’t want
to call at your window... Spring
comes –its white garb
floats in the air of the dead square—
comes to light up the red
roses of your rose bush... I want to see her...