The languid lemon tree suspends,
a pale and dusty branch,
over the charm of the clear spring,
and over there, dreaming in the depths,
the fruits of gold...
It’s a clear afternoon,
almost like spring,
a mild March afternoon,
brought by the gentle breeze of an approaching April;
and I am alone, on the dark patio,
looking for an old and candid illusion:
some shade over the white wall,
some memory, on the stone parapet
of the sleeping spring, or, in the air,
some wandering of a light tunic.
  In the afternoon ambience floats
that aroma of absence,
that says to the luminous soul: never,
and to the heart: hope.
  That aroma which evokes the ghosts
of virginal and dead fragrances.
  Yes, I remember you, O cheerful and bright afternoon,
almost like spring
afternoon without flowers, when you brought me
the good perfume of the mint,
and of the pleasant basil,
that my mother had in her flowerpots.
  That you saw me bury my pure hands
in the serene water,
to reach those charming fruits
that now lie dreaming in the depths of the fountain...
  Yes, I know you, O cheerful and bright afternoon,
almost like spring.