It is Spring. The clear day clarifies

the whole fluidic, infinite ampleness.

The breeze runs and along the space it agitates

a sonorous and clear love song.

However, a vile bitter sadness,

I have in the chest in which the nostalgia inhabits.

Why don't you take, avaricious Nature,

the pain that already dozes in my chest?

Take the atrocious sadness that today corrodes me

the laughter, to the black deep vortex

and give me oestrus and laughters — light and aroma.

Pursue of my soul the ugly night,

and give her one festival, jucund day,