Dense, fresh, shady and virgin, I love the forest,

full of emanations and aroma and chaste life.

There, where, free, the sun, the rattlesnake crawls,

in my soul the pleasure always shows.

Escaping from the pack, the deer there stands back,

in search of rest; and there, in thankful siesta,

the man — whitish, disposes the plans to the feast

of a beautiful and big victory, in trophies abundant.

And I judge to see him there, resting in the shade,

lying in nakedness, the backs for the carpet,

sunbeams in the forehead and the weapons at his side,

looking, for the rural glade, the far away top

of the hill, where his group, arriving, intones a hymn