The plants of the lake saw you one morning. The stones the goats the sweat exist outside of days like the water of the lake. The lake remains unmarked by the days' pain and clamor. The mornings will pass, the anguish will pass, other stones and sweat will bite into your blood— it won't always be like this. You'll rediscover something. Another morning will come when, beyond the clamor, you'll be alone on the lake.

You also are love. Made of blood and earth like the others. You walk like one who won't stray far from your own front door. You watch like one who waits and doesn't see. You are earth that aches and keeps silent. You have bursts and lapses, you have words — you walk and wait. Your blood is love — that's all.

Translated from the Italian by Geoffrey Brock