“Why do I look at you like that so dejected,
poor flower?
Where is the finery of your life
and the color?
“Tell me, why do you devour yourself with sadness,
sweet blessing?”
“Who?—The delirious, devouring craziness
of love,
for which I was consuming myself little by little
with pain!
Because loving with all the tenderness
of faith,
I did not want to love the creature
that I loved.
And that's why without finery I wilt
sadly here,
always crying in my accursed pain,
Always, always!"—
Thus spoke the flower!...
I moaned ... it was the same as the memory
of my love.