Atropo e il Filo della Vita
The eyes of Atropo scrutinize and have the same cold light of a tombstone: I try in vain in the white pupils a breath of mercy, an afterthought, a belated benevolence.
I see the color of the moon shake his hand a small hank of a colored thread of life. After it runs its course has lingered between red roses, gray pebbles, small shells, thorns and golden petals,
that thread now pulsates between the bloodless fingers of Atropos, the daughter of Night,
but will not escape.
Atropo "she who can not be avoided" (Hesiod) was feared even by gods, then we will not be cowards if we like them.