Ivy: IVY

At the foot of my cross, in the cemetery,
I want the love ivy to be born;
not the pansy brunette,
not the white lily, nor the rose,
that the affection of the flowers is passing.
But the Ivy sticks, where it rests.
It grows, and with its branches it girds and restrains itself
to what protects and supports it
and with it all sweetly united,
he lives with him in his own life.
Loving lives the kind Ivy,
and to be beautiful does not wait for April.
The modest Ivy is always dear to me
that to the offenses of the gel resists and lasts,
or of an ancient tree the trunk trunk
young and fresh with its greenery;
lay down his branches, or declines them sadly
on the ruins of the walls.
For everything where ivy spreads
he wears the grace of his wreaths,
now graceful symbol of affection,
adorn and cheer my poor roof
perhaps, soon, vereconda and pia
he will comfort my burial.