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To a Creole lady
It is a country of aromas to which the sun always kisses,
I knew under a canopy of trees cardinals
And palms that rain in the eyes laziness,
To a Creole lady of unknown charms.

Hot it is their pale complexion; charming moraine,
There is in their neck noble and affected expressions;
He/she walks, high and slender, like a leather jacket;
Their smile is calm, its plumbed eyes.

Mrs., if vos went to my glorious country,
On the green loire or of the wavy sign,
Beautiful, worthy of adorning the old habitations,

You would make germinate, among discreet fronds,
Thousand and a sonnet in the souls of the poets,
More than a black slave for enslaved vos.