Id not want any longer the maternal adoration
Which finally exhausts us and then flashes in panic,
Neither do I want the feeling of a precious find
Like that of Katherine Kippenburg at the feet of Rilke.
And I do not want the love, under silly disguises,
Of that same nymph desolate in her hermitage,
Nor the constant search of thirst rather than of lymph
And neither do I want the simple rose of sex,
Hidden, meaningless, in the hostels of the wind,
Just I do not want the geometric friendship
Of souls who elected one another in a proud cultivation,
An overlapping, perhaps? of melancholy needs.
I aspire rather to a faithful indifference
But poise enough to sustain life
And, in its indiscrimination of cruelty and diamond,
Able to suggest the end without the injustice of prizes.