Fumo

Far from you the paths are desolate
Far from you there is no moonlight or roses
Far from you there are silent nights
There are days without warmth, eaves without nests

My eyes are two poor old men
Lost in winter nights
Open dreaming of caressing hands
Your sweet hands, full of affection

The days are autumns, they cry, they cry
There are fading purple chrysanthemums
There are mournful murmurs of secrets

I invoke our dream, I reach out my arms
And it is, oh my love, through the spaces
Light smoke that escapes between my fingers.