"After Three Years
I pushed the narrow door that creaked
And walked inside the small garden
Bathed softly in the morning sun
That sows each flower with a humid spark.
Nothing has changed. I have seen everything again: the pergola
Of humble wild vines with the wicker chairs...
The trickle always makes that argentinian murmur
And the old poplar its eternal lament.
The roses pulsate as before; as before
The proud lilies sway in the wind.
Every lapwing that comes and goes is known to me.
I have also found standing the Velleda
Whose plaster crumbles at the end of the avenue
– slender, in the stale scent of mignonette."
Created by d'Araprì