Like a beautiful day in May
which with a kiss of wind
and caress of a ray,
is extinguished in the firmament,
with the kiss of a rhyme,
caress of poetry,
I climb the extreme peak
of my existence.
The walking sphere
for every human destiny
here it is already bringing me closer,
at the hour of death,
and perhaps before the last
my verse is finished
the executioner will announce to me
the end of life.
Let it be! Strophe, last Goddess!
still give to your poet
the dazzling idea,
the usual flame;
I, to you, while you vivid
to me you flow from heart,
will give as rhyme the cold spirit of man
who dies

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