I’m afraid of things passed,
that inhabit bygone times,
those in silence condemned,
matters never before discussed.
I’m afraid of my own house,
and of everyone that dwells in it,
of inciting it into hot flames,
creating intrigues that are so much avoided.
I’m afraid of what I’ll leave here,
and of what I’ll find there,
afraid that what I’ll bring with me,
will contrast with what I took from there.
I’m afraid of realizing,
to be there only with my body,
and in the end to be regretful,
and to deplore my enterprise.