Spare me these love powers,
Thy covert  torture,
In discreet shelters,
Wait no more,
I can’t walk nor run,
To ingratiate myself as before,
My child in company,
Is having fun,
Round and round the sun
Or is it his shadow?
Lingering, out of breath,
Like the before to be mown meadow,
Lushly, leaning to the morning breeze,
Swaying with a subtle motive,
A plenty of desire to live,
Before death,

Where art thou child?
So delicate and mild,
Lost among flowers
So bright and wild,
Yellow, pink and red,
Splinters of your bed,
Laughter and gestures,
Have I lost my sight?
Or art the eyes deceived by light?
We shall not return tonight;
Memories  of the dead or the Blind,
That is insinuating visions for a widow,
who is waiting the true return
Of her old man and toddler.