MY INSPIRATION WITH THE WIND
morrow I will die; all passion I give up
floats in the air far away the old bitter cup.
in each dam normal or sea grand,
in exile my soul hangs about my homeland.
morrow when I die, the moon no longer gray,
poetry will fade like a dream to slip away.
the remote region there is no cloud white,
the pastoral river will loom in what site?
morrow I am gone, vale the planet of vision!
or dolor, into the nil: only a rescission.
in the future my soul is drifted, so chagrined,
I will still feel the country sunshine in the wind.