Like a fist

When you go to Italy, your country,
and I stay all alone at Maragall,
that street which we have never liked
becomes for me the site of a grey and useless dance.
Ausiàs March comes to my mind;
his old song suddenly becomes clear to me,
alone at home, sunk in the concern
of my great and growing desire for you.

"Would to God that my thought were dead
and that I spent my life in sleep".

I understand very well, unhappy fate,
the deepest root of this sad thought;
its young, strong and atavistic reason
I feel, enthralled, deep inside me.
In our large Italian sized bed,
I spend the nights feeling your absence.
Not all who want to can sleep, and life is not oblivion,
love, love, the sentence is hard.

When you go to Italy, your country,
sorrow comes to keep me company
and doesn't go, but its length grows;
awake by night it stirs, by day it's still.
This happens to me, and many other things
when I feel lonely, which is to feel you far away.
I see it clearly when I've counted a hundred and twenty hours
of the time that slides slowly away.

Your body will come, which you put softly
next to mine, when we feel so close:
lovelier than ever will the roses bloom,
and slowly we'll close ourselves like a fist.