We Aged A Hundred Years,

I Am Not One Of Those Who Left The Land To The Mercy Of Its Enemies. Their Flattery Leaves Me Cold, My Songs Are Not For Them To Praise.

A Land Not Mine, Still Forever Memorable, The Waters Of Its Ocean Chill And Fresh. Sand On The Bottom Whiter Than Chalk, And The Air Drunk, Like Wine, Late Sun Lays Bare The Rosy Limbs Of The Pinetrees. Sunset In The Ethereal Waves: I Cannot Tell If The Day Is Ending, Or The World, Or If The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.

The Triumphs Of A Mysterious Non-meeting Are Desolate Ones; Unspoken Phrases, Silent Words.

I Should Be Proud To Have My Memory Graced, But Only If The Monument Be Placed... Here, Where I Endured Three Hundred Hours In Line Before The Implacable Iron Bars.

It Was A Time When Only The Dead Smiled, Happy In Their Peace.