While the ship of the dead passes
on the Mediterranean sea and sinks it
I am vanishing slowly but surely.
I vanish slowly under my breath.
Grass is dying with dignity and I tip over
on the next stem. The yellow buttercup
the odd red violet, the wild
flower when spring is at war.
I am the floating foam of purple
flowers rising, which I cannot name
as in this missing
every stay is absence.
The most lively absence of you holding me
while I bend in the wind.
Translation by Pietro Federico