Rash and abundant river
that waters the meadows of my people,
who could cry on your banks
to the round moon's cold rays!
At night in my agitated delirium
I seem to be gazing upon your palms,
your orange blossoms and vines,
and your dew-covered lilies.
Who would give just one look
at the sweet and modest house of mine,
where I was born, like a bird in the bower!