I am a sincere man
From where the palm tree grow
And before death takes me,
I want to let the poems soar from my soul.

I come from everywhere
And everywhere I go;
Art I am among the arts,
Among the mountains,
Mountain I am.

All is beautiful and loyal,
All is musical and right,
And all, like the diamond,
Is charcoal before being light

With the poor of the world
I want to cast my fate;
A little brook in the mountain
Please me more than the sea.

I want, whenever I die,
Stateless, but with no master,
To have on my tombstone, a bouquet of flowers...
...and my country's flag.

I cultivate a white rose
in July as in January,
For the sincere friend
who offers me his honest hand.
And for the cruel one who rips from me
My heart by which I live,

I cultivate neither thorns nor thistles;
I cultivate the white rose.