MOIRAI

If all the sand in the sea
blown by the wind of time
flows into a fragile stream
where grain for grain comes down,

the stories that Cleto has woven
since long ago knotted to yours
fall apart in thin threads
that by looking you just break,

and days of joy and misfortune
spun in immortal gold
that at dawn Lachesis set
merge into an empty memory,

then stamp on the ground,
and break through every step,
the blade already Atropos took
and quickly prepares to cut.