Of the adolescence in the radiant sun I made them,

singing the love, singing the Nature.

They don't have venal traumas, nor they have secrets —

they only have expressions of the soul in plainess.

In their rhymes I still hear the peeping

of birds that I heard in the hedges of the grove...

Of my thoughts they are my asylums

and I must always love them with certainty.

Be not worth anything finally to the inscient and insane,

for which have the Verses thousand arcana,

and of the which the blasphemy always starts from.

I have to read them always with tenderness,

because, for me, they are the clausure,