VOLVER.

I make out the flickering of the lights that, in the distance, mark my return. They are the same ones that illuminated, with their pale reflections, deep hours of sorrow. And though I did not wish to return, one always goes back to one's first love. The quiet street where the echo said: "Her life is yours, her love is yours," beneath the mocking gaze of the stars that watch me return today with indifference.

To return, with a withered brow; the snows of time have silvered my temples. To feel that life is but a breath, that twenty years are nothing, that a feverish gaze, wandering in the shadows, searches for you and calls your name. To live, with my soul clinging to a sweet memory over which I weep once more.

I fear the encounter with the past that returns to confront my life. I fear the nights that, filled with memories, shackle my dreams. But the traveler who flees halts his journey sooner or later. And though oblivion—which destroys all things— may have killed my old dream, it harbors a humble hope, which is the entire fortune of my heart.