Surviving from very distant nights

At a silent path towards the jungle

A little stove made of stone,

Contains some cold ashes.

Like my melancholy thoughts buried in the dust,

Bearing sketches of everything,

A tale whose fruit is but pain.

My sweet day that agreed with me

Has become an incongruous sketch,

It has grown cold and turned into stone

And the autumnal breathe of my life, turns yellow the spring's face.

Still surviving from very distant nights

At a silent path towards the jungle

A little stove made of stone,

Contains some cold ashes.