If you forget me.

I want you to know

one thing.

You know how this is:

if you look

at a crystal moon, at the red brach

of the slow autumn at my window

if I touch

near the fire

the impalpable ash

or the wrinkled body of the log,

everything carries me to you,

as if everything that exists,

aromas, light, metals,

were little boats

that sail

toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,

if little by little you stop loving me

I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly

you forget me

don’t look for me,

for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,

the wind of banners

that passes through my life,

and you decide

to leave me at the shore

of the heart where I have roots,

remember

that on that day,

at that hour,

I shall lift my arms

and my roots will set off

to seek another land.

But

if each day,

each hour,

you feel that you are destined for me

with implacable sweetness,

if each day a flower

climbs up to your lips to seek me,

all my love, ah my own,

in me all that fire is repeated,

in me nothing is extinguished of forgotten,

my love feeds on your love, beloved,

and as long as you live it will be in your arms

without leaving mine.

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