SPRING AND GIRL IN THE AUTUMN OF THE POET 

I do not feel more nor rhyme the loose poetry

Than, hovering, makes me daydream,

Shuffling letters that I barely read,

Making magic feel in my soul.

In the throbbing world of manumission

In which the spirit sees itself, I believe,

But I see different. I am all poetry.

And I'm not a poem, not even half.

I know the breeze that hallucinates,

Without size, not too hot,

Sings a lullaby.

I song dreams, in which you come.

So natural, still a girl,

In a time of blossom, sweetness and grace.