Make a vase, keep it safe! Place it among those joys not yet open to us: on a lovely urn, praise it, with flowery, swirling, inscription: ‘Subrisio Saltat: the Saltimbanque’s smile’ You, then, beloved, you, that the loveliest delights silently over-leapt. Angel! O, gather it, pluck it, that small-flowered healing herb. You, who fall, with the thud that only fruit knows, unripe, a hundred times a day from the tree of mutually built-up movement (that, swifter than water, in a few moments, shows spring, summer and autumn), fall, and impact on the grave: sometimes, in half-pauses, a loving look tries to rise from your face towards your seldom affectionate mother: but it loses itself in your body, whose surface consumes the shy scarcely-attempted look.And again the man is clapping his hands for your leap, and before a pain can become more distinct, close to your constantly racing heart, a burning grows in the soles of your feet, its source, before a few quick tears rush bodily into your eyes. O you, that a sorrow, that was still small, once received as a plaything, in one of its long convalescences.
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