PAISAJE.

One afternoon I bought you, distant landscape, with your golden frame and autumn scene. I hung you on the wall across from her portrait, across from the portrait that is no longer there.

Perhaps that is why your muted tone, your shadow and your gray only now distress me; your sky roofed with clouds and mist, your park weeping under the rain of April.

Who could it be, who painted on your canvas the autumn stillness of the pine grove? And that light of oblivion, the lost horizon, the path wounded in blue, and solitude?

Who once found you just as you are and understood your colors? What kind, generous soul saw the sorrow of the gray cloud, the blue path, the pain of April?

Nobody's loneliness hanging on the wall. Now I know that my life, like you, is only a distant, dark landscape, without the silver of dreams, without the gold of love.

We are, yes, the same, with the same fate. A blurred drizzle on an April day. An empty nest, an old road, and an air of absence, so sad and gray.