There sometimes roams about at night a muffled murmur of woods
And of swift, turning shadows and tired winds.
Where can I listen, can I to listen to you, delirious sheaf of dreams
But in this silent, deep darkness of the night?

The dust of dried leaves and murmurs roams the woods, old roads,
And a song, a wailing light that descends to the lips,
Crossing with strange sounds and fears this dream of stone
Of sleeping shapes. A rough wind and in the wind the song.

The sound of insistent shadow grows, grows.
A breeze, a leaf resounds in the soul with an extended echo,
And a remembrance appears amongst a thousand names, like an
approach
Of butterflies in the hours that come from the distance to the night.

This is the night, gentle woman from whom we'd wish to recover
An ancient love, a caress, a mysterious and ardent desire.
Like a woman it should lie down eternally at one's side,
And from her body would come nocturnal perfumes, lunar aromas.

There is something above the earth: oblivion and hopes, life,
And a dream grows from what is lost, from the remote childhood,
Advancing beautifully and slowly, with a sick woman's step,
Indistinct voices gush, and words, smoke profiles in the memory.

There is something over the earth: life, hopes and oblivion.
Through the night a deep, muffled murmur of woods
That comes to the deserted heart with hidden places
Of nocturnal wood, old branches, unknown or sinister birds.

Afterwards all is silent. The night, near the sea
Will not leave, against the rocks, the shore, its dramatic accent
Of overflowing waters beating white and sleepy foam.
But far away, in cities without shores, a tremulous silence endlessly burns.