Old distant house,
open on that lawn
that the fiumicel closed as a jewel
tremulous, mirroring
brown statues with a muscular plinth;
and beyond the fence,
of feathered cantor royal palace,
the thick, ancient plants,
green hermitic kindergartens,
for me already a dreamer,
of thoughts, of charms, of invitations ….

…. look, I see you, bow
on the harpsichord, of your first sweet years
the simple songs, heard in the shade
of the palms and in the beautiful vesperi of gold;
or the parties, the preci, the luminous
dream never forgotten, I love it
of childhood narration, flowered in the sun
of Asia, there, among the white intercolonists
of your superb abode, in the wind
of your wild sea, inside the untouched
selve, or listen to it with solemn accents
talk about God …

Moon, the good times have always gone in my heart
when to your sweet albor the eyes are vulgar.
Lakes, mountains and diffused meadows of seren
in your candid sen scorger you believe.
Scorger believes the dance of the winged inhabitants.
Oh how dreaming of the heart when he is happy!
Sad, deserted room, dark ashen mar
now that yours is a silver record.
And now with the wet rivers of mindful sorrow,
Luna, your sad albor, I follow the sky.

My pride, therefore to behold, you are not worthy
This that the torment torments
Pensier, where do I come back?
So you can not win anymore?
Dunqe can all be turned off?
And I have believed one day so strong! …
A superb mortal that does not cure you
Nor does he know how much he has offended me;
Here’s who to sell you know!
And you suffer that you suffocate me
Under the unfair weight
Of a pity that I never asked for?