SONNET
TO A LOVE MELANCHOLY

If a little glowing light
has the clarity so penetrating,
that of the fierce lion placed before,
it humiliates him and prostrates his prideful forehead.

Why is the butterfly so brave,
or better to say so arrogant,
that being of the light so similar
want to die in a burning flame?

More than the one and the other thoughts
are cut off as an injury
that with both I step into an abyss.

Well sometimes I run away from contentment
and others I hug him with such great fury
that I die at the hands of contentment itself.