I made them in the ardor of the sincere impressions

and I read them impressed and reflexive;

they are for me safe of chimeras,

I feel, when reading them, nostalgia and soothing.

They have aromas of thankful springs,

that enchant me and they do me expansive;

adolescence fervours, truthful impressions

to the ones which so sweetly I am captive.

I love my verses, as the lover parents

love their children, talkative infants.

Be only loved by me, although!

They must wake up, in my coming days,

happy, thankful, pure episodes —