...Weaving her threads by the river Navia
xane of the night can be a dream of love
or the reverie of a reality.
Nightsong, mirror of pang or disillusion
she weaves her threads, leaving them be bathed
by the moonlight
so the first sun ray will turn them into gold...
Run, run away damned-little creature; escape in the night
as I did once.
Escape until the pain turn into invisibility
until the fractured love turn
into oceanic fog
as I did
once.
.
