RIMA VII

In the dark corner of the room,
perhaps forgotten by its owner,
silent and covered with dust,
            one can see a harp.

How many notes sleep in its cords,
like the bird that sleeps in the branches,
waiting for a snowy white hand
            that can awaken them!

Alas!—I thought—How often it is
that genius sleeps in the depths of the soul,
and waits, like Lazarus, for a voice
that can tell it: «Rise up and walk!».