Nothing is miserly
and neither hour is harsh,
nor the fate of night is somber.
And clear is the dew
so that the sun rises and, fascinated,
yearns for the bathing:
that mirrors the bed of all things done. 

Nothing is miserly,
and all is rich like the wine and the suntanned cheek.
And the sea wave always laughs,
Spring of winter -- Spring of summer.
And all is Spring:
and every leaf green forever. 

Nothing is miserly,
because days don't go by;
and death does not come, even if you called for it.
And if you did call for it, a hollow hides you
because to be born again, you need first to die.
And we are never a crying but a gentle smile
that disperses like orange segments. 
 
Nothing is miserly,
because there's a song in each wisp of a thing.
- Today, tomorrow and yesterday
 a rose will shed its petals:
and to the youngest virgin, milk will come to her breast.