The sun was still warm although she wasn't lightening anymorenit was turning off and from her body of fire escaped a sparknnstill we could see the great pines flowers fadingnthe breeze was soft as the silver brook was running under my feetni fell asleepnnthen the morning sun slowly warms and gilds the wet cornnand the azure sky has kept all the freshness of the nightnnwe follow a blurred path along the river with yellow grassnthe air is sharp reflections of flying birds in the waternthat's allnnbut the thoughtful poet loves this landscape which softnessncherished his dream and rocked his memorynnof a young woman a white and singing appearancenthe one he finally found the one his soul alwaysncried and claimed