XXVIII
When among dark shadows some lost voice mutters disturbing its sad calm; if deep within my soul I hear its sweet echo, tell me: is it that the wind in his swirls is moaning, or is it that of love your passing sighs speak to me?
When the sun on my window shines red in the morning, and my love your shade recalls; if on my mouth I think I feel of another mouth the touch, tell me: is it that in my blindness I’m delirious, or is it that in a whisper a kiss sends your heart to me?
If in the bright day and in the high somber night, if in all that surrounds the soul that wishes for you I think I feel and see you, tell me: is it that I touch and breathe in dreams, or is it that in a whisper your breath to drink you give to me?
When the sun on my window shines red in the morning, and my love your shade recalls; if on my mouth I think I feel of another mouth the touch, tell me: is it that in my blindness I’m delirious, or is it that in a whisper a kiss sends your heart to me?
If in the bright day and in the high somber night, if in all that surrounds the soul that wishes for you I think I feel and see you, tell me: is it that I touch and breathe in dreams, or is it that in a whisper your breath to drink you give to me?