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The vase where this verbena dies
With a blow of fan was cracked;
The shot barely touched:
No noise revealed it.
But the slight bruising,
Biting the crystal every day,
An invisible and safe walk
Slowly went around.
His fresh water leaked drip,
The juice of the flowers has run out;
No one yet knows it;
Do not touch it, it's broken.
Often the hand we love,
Touching the heart, bruises it;
Then the heart splits itself,
The flower of his love perishes;
Always intact in the eyes of the world,
He feels grow and cry all over
His fine and deep wound;
It's broken, do not touch it.