Under the porch of the old palace
a lamp in wrought iron is swaying,
in memory of flowers and grapes:
in the wind, ghosts of nobelmen move it,
enjoying to make it go to and fro,
amomg the mist coming from the river,
delighted in seeing that play of shades
which chase each other on the ancient stones.
once, that lamp peeped from the vault
the triumph of young breasts offered
over laceworks and veils:
how many merry laughs it must have heard
filtering through the windows of the palace,
among the jingles of crystal glasses,
full of some pander delicate wine...
now it is swinging at ghosts' wind
and it thanks God, who, tomorrow,
will send another morning on the world.