To my dear friend J.C. Fernandez
Breath in the morning
what are you stealing on your flight
the essence, pure and early,
that the lush violet
dismisses the sky in vapor?
Tell me, breath of dawn,
inconstant and light breeze,
are you going by any chance at this time
to the valley that makes you fall in love
and which waits for you moaning?
Or do you go to the nests
of the singing goldfinches
that in the hidden thickets
await you half asleep
on their flower beds?
Or are you announcing perhaps
that you blow from the nascent sunrise,
murmuring along your passing,
that with the death of the setting sun
a child rises in the East?
Pick up your faint wings,
pure summer breeze,
that the perfumes you exhale
you steal among the finery
of the violets of the river.
Stop your fleeting career
over the smiling flowers
on the hill and the meadow,
and go lightly to wake up
the angel of my loves.
And tell her, scented breeze,
with your sonorous murmur,
that she is my golden illusion,
and that in my graven chest
how I adore my life.