The sun was still warm although she wasn't lightening anymore   it was turning off and from her body of fire escaped a spark      still we could see the great pines flowers fading   the breeze was soft as the silver brook was running under my feet   i fell asleep      then the morning sun slowly warms and gils the wet corn   and the azure sky has kept all the freshness of the night      we follow a blurred path along the river with yellow grass   the air is sharp reflections of flying birds in the water   that's all      but the thoughtful poet loves this landscape which softness   cherished his dream and rocked his memory      of a young woman a white and singing appearance   the one he finally found the one his soul always   cried and claimed