O springtime

Oh springtime, youth of the year,

beautiful mother of flowers,

of new plants and of new loves,

you return indeed, but with you

are not returning the bright

and lucky days of my joys.

You return indeed, you return,

but with you, otherwise, is returning

only my dear lost treasure's

memory, sad and sorrowful.

You are that one, indeed that one

that you were not long ago, so lovely and beautiful,

but I am not that one that once I was,

so valued in the eyes of others.