The afternoon slowly goes down...

A mockingbird sings in viridiscent twigs,

the breeze even with the waters oscillates

and insects sing far in the prairie.

A raft arrives; in the air, a horn blow,

all thundering, throws a hoarse sound...

Far in the woods the gentle dove

in the breeze´s groan its own combines.

Everything is then melancholy; on that hour

it seems that all the nature cries

a sad weeping of cruel displeasure.

And the very sky, unhappy and circumflex,

it spreads even with the lake its reflex,