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Eumolpo: Poets may die, Encolpius. But it doesn't matter, if poetry remains.
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Eumolpo: I leave you poetry. I leave you the seasons, especially spring and summer. I leave you the wind, the sun. I leave you the sea, the good sea. The earth is good, too. The mountains, streams, and rivers. And the big clouds that move by solemn and light. You'll look at them and maybe remember our brief friendship. And I leave you the trees and their agile inhabitants. Love, tears, joy, stars, Encolpius. I leave you sounds, songs, noises. The voice of man, which is the most harmonious of music. I leave you.
Sandro Dori
Extended Reading
