Sometimes I venture to make an odd journey.
I go to the past, long ago, distant and perilous.
The road I take has been built entirely by me,
in very hard a way no one at least dreams of.
Rough a path and full of so many deviations,
that even me, well used to, I go so timorous.
Now, I see that there were no other choices,
for only this way would lead me where I am.
Where and what I must be ever since I was.
In this visit, I see friends, lovers, enemies,
grandfathers and cousins, see also myself.
Then, undoubted alive, they talk to me,
ask for news, and, like old comrades,
absent for so long, soon we are laughing.
On leaving, one or other intend to follow me,
but I don’t feel safe and go home alone.
I suspect that past is jealous of its deeds
and always hides how has woven them.
I think it must be visited as few times
as one is capable of.