Paisaje

I bought you a distant landscape afternoon,
the golden frame and the autumnal theme.
I hung you on the wall in front of his portrait,
in front of his portrait that is no longer there.

Maybe that's why I'm just now distressed
by your veiled tone, your shadow, your gray,
your sky covered with clouds and mist,
your park crying with April rain.

Who could it be, who could it be
that painted on your canvas
the autumnal stillness of the pine forest?
And that light of forgetfulness,
and the lost horizon,
and the wounded path of blue
and the loneliness?

Who was it that once
found you as you are
and managed to understand your color?
What soul, what good soul
saw the sorrow, sorrow
of the gray cloud,
of the blue path,
of the pain of April?

Loneliness of no one hanging on the wall.
Today I know that my life, just like you,
is only a distant and dark landscape
without dream silver, without love gold.

We are... yes, the same, with the same destiny.
Blurry drizzle of an April day.
An empty nest and an old road
and an air of very sad and gray absence.