They said me, between drinks, they said
That money tickles your mind
That you can’t look at one who lies much
Without recalling that they made much fun of you.
They told me that you came from mud
And not from the log of a splendid oak
That for this, you want so much to be noble
But not go on carrying your slow carriage
In the books I read about you
In lonely hours I was imagining you
Looking at the limits that you are carving
While keeping quiet, old man, what you are finding
As if you were awakening in passing
The pure fire that protects its roses.