The mushroom is like the elf of plants. At night, it disappears. In the morning, in a truffle cabin, it stops at any point. It seems as if it is always delaying, but its career is shorter than the delay of a snake and faster than a tara. It is a vegetable acrobat, the germ of an alibi. It anticipates like a large bubble and vanishes like a bubble. It is as if the grass likes its intermittence. This successor of the sub-reptile is circumspect of summer. If nature had a gentle face or disregarded such a face, if nature had an apostate, the mushroom - that would be it! **"The Morning"**
The morning is the place of the dew. The corn grows at noon. The light is the dinner for the flowers. It is a real mocho when it is sunset. **"Today"**
Today, I only bring this, nothing more. This, and my heart. This, my heart, all the fields, and all the meadows, the vastest ones. See if it is correct - I don't want to forget any part of the addition. This, my heart, and all the bees that have made their habitation in the clover.