RIMA XLV

On the unsteady keystone of the arch
whose stones were reddened by time,
was a gothic coat of arms carved
            by a crude hand.

Ivy was hanging over the crest
of the granite helmet and cast shadows
over the coat of arms, on which a hand
            was holding a heart.

In the deserted plaza the two of us
            stopped to look at it;
«That,» she told me, «is the perfect symbol
            of my constant love.»

Alas! What she told me then is true:
            true, that she would hold
my heart in her hand… or someplace else…
            but never in her breast.