Melancholy of the departure lacerate a tired heart, grabbed to print of a goodbye kiss. The return leaves the mind still more dismayed in the deprived search of a smile left and not found again. Also the face of the country is changed, profaned, destroying, "even on the broom are passed". Typical of the poets of the south the pain for that was and is not more, for the insults rendered to the own earth, typical the accusations to anonymous people that have operated worse. But not all is lost, on tormenting melancholy that sail all, flutters a dove white woman, perhaps is the love that can make flower again this tortured and betrayed earth, perhaps enough to believe to "remote fables" for being able to recommence. When it seems to fade the confidence in a possible spring and "shakes to knees" induce to an idle giving up, the heart does not surrender, the eye, rambling also tired, in tries of emotions, put the last hope in the powerfull roots of the ancient linden that tells past history to who still knows to listen.

Franca Molinaro