Mild days with many trees.
This gentle breeze around your lips goes well on you.
This flower you are gazing at goes well on you.
So, the sea, the tilting sun and this boat,
which glides along the dusky rosefield
carrying as sole passenger a girl with a sorrowful guitar
are not a lie.
Please let me be the one to pull the oars,
as if I' d pull two purple beams sung into oblivion.

The house with the wooden staircase and the orange trees,
facing the azure, big mountain. The countryside gently
walks around inside the rooms. The two mirrors
reflect the singing of the birds. Only
that in the middle of the bedroom lie abandoned
two fabric slippers for the old. So,
when the night falls, the dead visit the house again
in order to collect something of theirs left behind,
a scarf, a vest, a shirt, two socks
and then, possibly due to short memory or carelessness,
they take along something of ours. Next day,
the postman passes our door without stopping.

Please cherish my memory - he said. I walked for thousand
miles on end without bread and without water, along rocks and through
thorns I walked, to fetch you bread, water and roses.
I was always faithful to beauty. With fair mind I gave out
all my fortune. I did not keep my lot. I am poor. With a tiny lily from
the fields I brightened our harshest nights. Please cherish my memory. 
And forgive this last sorrow of mine: 
I would like - once again - to reap a ripe corn with the
slender sickle moon. To stand at the threshold, to stare away
and to chew with my front teeth the wheat
admiring and blessing this world that I leave behind,
admiring also Him who climbs up the hill in the
golden rain of a sinking sun. There is a purple square patch in his
left sleeve. It is not easy to see. It was this, more than anything else,
that I wanted to show you.
And probably, more than anything else, it would be worth
remembering me for this.