Good morning spirit, once my love and my lute,

Hope doesn’t wear an apron as its garden,

The wind doesn’t build itself up! Do you sleep without fear,

The old horse presenting its feet to each beautiful task?

Retire my heart, sleep the heavy dream of giants.

Forbidden, conquered spirit! For you, old soldier,

Love has no ghosts, nor does it have any squabbles;

Cast off your clothes, sing to the spoon and serve soup with a flute!

Pleasures, don’t set up camp with your sad heart in bandages once more!

Lovely spring has forgotten its smells!

And Time makes me fatter minute by minute,

Like an enormous snow dropping bodies of thieves.

I go to church in a rounded boat in its roundness,

And I will not search for the tree of a burned down man.

Avalanche, do you want to bring me to the chimney?