A lonely shadow is riding the city;
Or just in my mind a confusion of memory?
Silhouette of soul, or silhouette of body?

When I am living the night,
I feel as if she were coming.
When I am taking the day,
I feel as if she were fleeting.

I am expecting the time to go to that temple;
Is it made of sun rays?
Or is it a dome of neon?

The play is already written;
But it is yet not acted.

Is that my real creed?
Or other nymph from the stars hatching?

When I am awaking under the night,
I feel its presence in any crossroad.
When I am sleeping during the day,
I do not distinguish in the penumbras.

Is that a ghost from the sky?
Or what kind of being, from what kind of abyss?

The lunch is made of meat.
The dinner is fruit.

Is that such a thing known as love? …
Might it be any other? …