Those who dream are not to blame
for their dreams, their chimeras
and awakened fears.
Outside, the hauling of the north wind
beats against the window
and it chases away the ghosts
who gather together as a crowd.
Through the mist in the squares,
in the eyes of an innocent boy,
you can catch glimpses
of the semen insanity,
witches burning on pyres
and their hair and breasts bared to the wind:
their beauty is a sympton of sin.
The contacts with the past
never stop, and as you close your eyes
this harassing, foolish longing for life
reappears, with its processions
of hooded figures
proceeding silently,
with bare feet,
bearing together with their crosses,
the burden of the world.
Those who dream are not to blame
for their dreams, their chimeras
and awakened fears.
