LAST PAGE

To the last page, to the last line I draw the names of my memory - eternal drivings - as an eternal memory from fact that you loved Italy. To you I pick flowers from there and carry, I make a wreath out of them, at your grave I carry it even though without my permission you left from here - so - that I could nothing. Only the angel went through my violet room and dyed its sorrow with a silver tear. Never nothing returns as it was before, you were a present, big love - you were the mother's and the father's own flower, I know it, I miss them also. I always remember you until my grave has been dug, then we may love and may be on the hills of luck for which it waits there where there is Italy's country.