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to remain as if on a thread because I sensed that, if I asked for it, you were ready to throw yourself over the wall, for me.

What good equilibrists have we been, right, Papa? Even our "joke" and "speech" helped us not to fall from that tight and thin thread.

The rose always hides 

among a hundred thorns. But young 

and my blood is thick: 

give me even a single rose 

to perfume the blood.

I didn't write this poem for you, partner. But you could be this rose, don't laugh Papa, it's not a joke. The rose that made my blood alive. For this I am grateful to you, despite Across the River...

"...I feel exiled without you..." and "...I want you to have a good life and want you to be successful in the things you want to do and I want you to marry the best man in the world even if I can't stop myself from loving you more than anything else in the world... "and" ...I will always love you in my heart and I can't help it."

You were in my heart too. Indeed, you are in my heart. You are still with me. I went to the window. The bells of San Marco struck the hours. The door opened, a voice shouted: "They are alive! They found them, they are alive!!" I looked at the chimneys and the square roof terraces between the straight lines of red-gray roofs. A few wisps of smoke, broken at times by a beating of wings, is lost in the sky. They are alive.