Cronica - Strumień

The sun dimmed for us, the shadow wrapped us in cold.
The stream has taken on hues, taken one of my hearts.
If only I could, just once, touch its source,
it would have no more strength, would flow no longer.
There will be no wound greater than finished time,
an empty room, cold air among the walls.
Nothing, like the autumn stream, will freeze us,
nothing, like the closest heart, among its colors.
He would give up every moment, every needed word.
He would suffer, as we do, one of the worst droughts.
I will not consent to time, to the endless sentence,
to how I miss you, to passing away.

There will be no wound greater than finished time,
an empty room, cold air among the walls.
Nothing, like the autumn stream, will freeze us,
nothing, like the closest heart, among its colors.
(Cronica)