Happiness in the afternoons, when the sun kindles the air
and within seconds, everything is clear just for you; because there is
colors as in the autumn, mornings that are counted for the
perfumed petals, where the sun has just touched.

I wanted to be so delicate as the clothes that involve you
Brief destiny that swings along the desirous wind to feel the
soul of the flowers whose life is more alive than the
prettiest dreams or the promises of a lifetime.

My favourite colors are yours, unrestricted,
in this land that feeds with the calm force of the active seiva,
when the buds that unfasten are such a bunch or
when it is only the green that finds the blue that frees, in these skies
of autumn-winter.

The red is more vibrant when the rose is in the distance behind,
the "blues" got mixed, as the mixture of the horizon in the distance with the blue of the deep sea,
if, by sleeping in these gardens, dreaming were necessary yet,
at wakening, the dream would be mere fact to be forgotten.

To the one whom knows who the flowers belong to,
I may say to the one who knows the truth from them.
The flowers are, at sleeping in bud, the waiting of answers
and, at the moment of the blossoming, the sureness of holding, each one of them, their own soul.