Poem by Alda Merini:

I know, my love,
time is no longer the best of riches,
time neither asks nor waits for anything.
But meanwhile, in your hair now white,
dry from a confused thirst,
a late adolescence seems
to keep growing through your fingers
like a multicolored lamp,
turning to seven, to eight:
lovers have no fixed time
nor the same nearness of fingers
that search for each other in a thousand ways
within a night made entirely of glass.