You think I’m an exchanger, for golden love, offering verses;
Am I bartering my sonnets, above all, with your caresses?
Am I a wily who pawns longing and melancholy,
For interests closed in my miserly treasury?
If you should know, my letter would be for you more precious
Like thousands diadems shinning on kingly foreheads;
Audacious diver lost within heavenly oceans,
I wrest my spirit from the eternal one, to go ahead...
I do not lament that maybe you are cheating,
On a so liar, chancy coin of love you’re sitting
That hard and empty it sounds sometimes,
I do not scratch the lead under its spurious shines,

I rather steal the verb from the beyond of nature loftiness
And every dream I’m giving you is thread of endlessness.

Thursday, February 17, 1955