IN VAIN

How many poems of love, sung in vain!
Oh, how old becomes my soul
when I recall the ancient
absurd story of yesterday.

How many poems of love, moaned in vain!
First you were a flower, I, the Bee.
Then my heart found in your window
the bitter snow that drove me old.

How many poems of love, lost in vain!
Today, my windows are wide open,
there is sunshine... many flowers, and it's summer...

But it's sad to see by my doorstep,
among so many dead butterflies,
so many poems of love cried in vain!...