I wish I had a window that would be the centre of the world, and a sorrow like that of the magnolia-flower, which darkens when you touch it...

Ah, her steps are like the dove's,
tranquil;
for friendship's sake I always imagine her alone,
holding in one of her hands a balloon
full of water
in which the fragility of destiny can be seen
and the continuity of life.
Her voice
is so gentle that in its atmosphere
sad grief heals,
as also in poems:
from her hair
the night is born,
and the dawn from her hands.
What piety, or sweetness,
will they be used to,
the things she looks at
or things familiar to her,
like the incense,
the lemon-jellies,
the longing
with which I look at her.