I like disheveled walking With the head on the shoulders like an alumen And i enjoy to light up Your autumn without feathers. I like that hails on my face The thick stone-throwing of those who judge me I grab only to feel alive At the shell of my hairs. And in my mind comes back that pond That reeds and musk have blacked And my parents who don't know to have A son that compose verses; But they love me as fields as skin and season's rain, Rare is that whoever offends me escapes from the spikes of a fork. Poor farmer parents, sure you're aged and still fear The heaven's God and the marshes, Parents that you never understand That your son has became The first poet of the village He is now with varnished shoes And with the hat in the head now walks. But still lives in him the frenzy Of an old countryside's thief And at every butcher's signboard The cow prostrates as his companion. And when he meets the coachman Comes back in mind the ashlar of the christmas And he wants the nag's tail Hold like a bridal train. I love my country Though plagued by rusty logs. I'm fond with the dirty pig's snout And the frogs in the shade sighing. I'm ill with childhood and memoirs And the fresh april's twilights, It seems that the maple curves To warm up and then sleep. From the nestof that tree, to steal The eggs, i used to climb up to on the top But its foliage will always be intact And strong his skin like before; And you my precious friend, old dog, Weak and blind made you the oldness, And with your tail down you turn in the courtyard Unaware of the barns's doors. I cheer my old thefts when i was a brat When from home i stole some bread And like two brothers we ate it One crumb to the man and one to the dog. I'm not changed, My heart and thoughts are the same, On the magnificent carpet of the verses I want to say something that can move you. Good night to the sickle of the moon Remain quiet while the air became somber, From my window i want to shout Against the plate of the moon. The night is so clear, Maybe isn't that bad even dying, Who cares if my spirit is perverted And from my back dangles a lamp. O Pegasus, decrepit and kind, your gallop is now without purpose, I came like a loner master I don't sing and celebrates only mice. From my head like ripe grapes Drips the mad wine of the hairs, I want to be a yellow haze, that swells to a country without name.