Good evening, your highness.
How is your sleep now in winter?
When leafless walnut trees show their smooth gray bark,
Effectively when all the trees seem mellow and ill
As if something is missing there,
Where the branches grow from their stem nodes.

Something is breaking there.

Your Highness, I am too young,
Something new still trembles inside me,
Something does not know how to let itself go
Along the road
And opposes its own nature,
I am like a newborn not accustomed yet to resignation,
I would like to succeed even if the odds are against me,
I would like to control the back-and-forth movement of the sun
As if it were a golden pendulum,
And

Then I awake and I am sorry
That I complained
It is winter time and everything seems to grow
And I am happy.

The light breaks into sparkles,
Life is an old habit, your highness,
Rebel sparks fleeing their mother’s eyes,
Like incandescent dust,
A Eucharist from centuries ago.