In the lakes one sees the color of the hemoptysis

and in the hills the blue of the firmament.

Little doves, small birds and partridges,

amid the forest and in languid abatement,

fallen wings, chirping,

they look for, in the shade, peace, freshness, and breathe.

The space dresses the tiled trousseau,

done of the smoke of the burn, dense —

done of that extremely thin brocade.

Hovering, in the high, a hawk, suspended,

it gives its sadly deep peepings,

plaintive and touching... In what do I think,

seeing that bird enemy of other birds,

peeping, under the blue, sad?

In the pain, hawk that comes, in soft hours,

to disturb with its peeps our life.

The sun crimson disk now is gazed,

without leaving our aching view.

Now it plethoric doesn't blush

the flowers of the gardens and of the prairies

of vivacious tones... how it is sad Flora!

The plants don't have vigor; the little

flowers oscillate, in the stalk, unhappy

and almost without perfume. Sun, you fulminate

birds and flowers that were so smiling!...

You are as bloody Host by the

rude and inexperienced people's touch,

without faith, without creed, without fear, without zeal

for sacrossanct things, for the believers,

as the Hosts are and the seven-star.

I want to see you festive and resplendent,

as a good God — you are Bel; not as Shiva

that dyes himself in the blood of the innocent...

Give light to the nature, clear and alive;

flee of the blood, sun, don't corrupt youself

in the occident of blood-red perspective.

Rise to the zenith and shine in royal pomps!

Go; and instead of you shake the sadness,

in gold and light, singing, that you burst forth

among the forest and around the hedge.

Give to our soul the essence of the luck

and to our glance charms and surprises.

To suffer I doesn't want more brutal torture

of the nostalgia that puts me gloomy,

when in the decline I see your figure!

Of you my glance, sad, deviates,

because if I stare you there I suffer anxiety,

I feel oppression in the chest and shivering-fit