I´m used to, in the morning, go to seeing my beloved

flowers — roses whose thankful and fine essence

inebriates us and inspires the birds, singers,

of the matinal orchestra that the spring tunes.

I went today. The breeze intoned placid rumors,

oscillating the stems of the flowers — peregrine,

its kisses evoking and an ascension of smells.

Full of aroma and light in the morning breeze.

The buds lean. There are burning kisses

and love thrills, in the innocent flowers:

The roses and the buds kiss each other with joy

And I think to seeing — the enchantment our mind deceives —

virginal small children, pure as virtue,

kissing their mother, in a cradle of day light.