No pain is equal to another pain,
the great advantage that pain has over joy
is that: the penalty mutates,
what makes us happy are almost always the same rains,
instead for sorrows
there are so many suns that shine that one cannot deny them,
They are there in the space of our own sky,
and a love or a friend passes by and tries to convince us that it is not,
that this sun is small,
that it is even so small -they say- that perhaps it is not even the sun,
but one is not deceived: they are suns so gigantic that they rain,
and none of them is equal to the other.
I suspect then that in each chest of each thing that
lives: bird, ant, girl, man, there are suns,
so many suns that burn and burn, and no two are the same,
as there are no equal memories, nor equal gods,
I wanted to say that the penalty mutates and that too
It should make us a little, a little bit, happy.