Somewhere near, a rose-tree must be blooming,
I don´t know… I feel in myself a harmony,
Some of the disinterest that fatigue brings.
I look at my hands. And a dangerous tenderness
Makes me touch them with my lips, lightly,
(It must be some rose…)
Tenderness that is no longer dangerous, no, patient pity.
The roses… The millions of roses from São Paulo…
I have so often seen my hands work,
And strike in fun the back of a friend,
Give themselves to enemies, and pick up money
from the ground…
Once my fingers rested on two lips,
And I wished I were blind at that moment!
She did not kiss my finger tips,
She kissed my hands, with passion, in submission…
She kissed the dust of my hands…
The same dust that drifts on the rose as it opens.
Somewhere near, a rose-tree must be blooming…
What harmony in me… How like a garden…
My body is healthy… My soul went away..
And left me.