Now this life depletes me
(I said already: it is large ballast)
It stretches wearily in the half journey
of mortal way towards its destiny.
After thirty years, I rotate the hourglass.
Its neck has mired speck:
It’s tough the sand flux,
grievous the measure of the slide.
I don’t allow dripping bitterly inside,
vain efforts of evasion:
in the certainty I have deserved
life imprisonment in this limbo.
I do not want to return on my steps;
the nothingness I saw has sufficed me:
I rue only the presence
of some futile and unwitting passage
among these armies of shadows,
who do not want to leave any trace.
Abrade me the morning thinking:
I bear it daylong as weight.
I stagger in these deep tribulations,
reluctant newborn I don’t regret:
the desperate crying doesn’t break out,
failing the air to the desolate cry.