That's a fresh bad of liquid silver,
but warm is the peace it infuses:
you feel to walk on an air carpet
patiently woven by Persian djinns.
these pebbles, these thick and broad maquis
in the dried riverbed of a Corsican stream,
renounce to keep their shapes, giving them
to this silent neverending sea,
that floods everything, souls and things;
whoever can feel, in this peerless marvel,
the hardness of the stones we are treading?