Search

There is right time for everything: to be
born, to grow and to get old,
To find and to lose, to drink and to thirst,
to reconcile and to fight,
To enjoy comfort and to suffer again,
To collect and to scatter the stones, to
laugh and to sob.

To make unnecessary fuss, to get
bruises and kicks,
To fall in dirt from the sky and then to
climb the slope again,
To cook soup and to raise children, to
prepare crosses and garlands,
To build a house for the ages and to
groan from disastrous fire.

Time of the first flowers and thoughtful
dry leaves,
Of frantic prayers - and damnations,
already overdue,
Of empty weeks - and instants which
inspire poetry,
Crazy embraces and austerity of cold
loneliness.

Of nightingale's delirium and of words
which torment the soul,
Of four tight walls - and disturbing
unknown open spaces,
Confused questions, foggy timid
dreams,
Exciting springs and depressing winter
griefs.

The tired philosopher proves - all is
vanity,
But who from life will be convinced with
these wretched words?
How desperate the beauty of life,
That the nature gives to us in a gleam
inside a tunnel!

So appreciate this gift. In their turn have
fun or grief,
You own the world, Ôtill you hear "Basta!"
É
Follow your soul; Live and love.
And quote with a smile the verses f