When it shatters the dawn into And its magic carnival runs From the high zenith, its jealous Verses, I will roll up the greenish Petals of the flowers, dressing them And I will find nothing, but on its Silken lips the tenderness of my life. When the peaked spring breaks the chains Of its pallid grotto and the skeletal Trees tremble in the laughter of their Euphoria, recovering their multi-colored Flowering, the fields will be decorated Then in their starched white ornaments. . . and I . . .And I will repair the adulteratedPoems of the broken fans of time,In the beautiful slimness of its sighs,That sleep beneath my poor and fragile verses. ...
