Cesare Pavese. (№ 322940)

Descend death with your eyes,
death that is woven for us next
from morning to night, closing his eye,
deaf as the conscience of the old reproach,
like a bad habit. With your eyes.
Your eyes are like a vain word,
as a cry without sound, silence.
Such you see them every morning
alone on his reflection
leaning. Dear hope,
that day finally know we are:
you are life and you are the emptiness.
Each death different look.
My - me - your eyes
and something happens, as if broken up
a bad habit, as if he saw,
as in a mirror surfaced dead person
like I heard a tightly compressed lips.
Silence. We dive Nemo in the abyss.