Then it is this, started the spring At least it is what it says the calendar. A new day amanheceu It was to be a pretty day, of those facts of blue warm and sunny, lightly sprinkled of it I sing innocent of ariscos birds that are jumping happy in the twigs of the flowery trees One day of flowers and kiss-flowers. One day almost perfect, of that people look at, verdinha sees relva, and says: It must have been thus when God created the first day But he is cold and rainy, this day that finished of dawn. In part some has any signal of the flowers of the spring that, according to calendar, already started It is that this day of spring is only plus one day friorento of winter Also in my soul still it is winter. In my soul the spring alone goes to start in the summer, that is when January to arrive It is funny this, silly thing, but depending on when it is started to count all day it is year end.
This year, of a spring to another one, the year passed in a sigh Yesterday still it was winter, before yesterday still was autumn, now already it is spring. The time, over all the time of our life, flies each faster time when it is come close to the end Twenty and four hours are little time for one day. Each day of our lives would have to last a thousand Still well that it does not last. How boredom, that insuportvel weight of if loading, would be a life of a thousand years! Seventy years it is the time of our life. if some, for its robustness, arrive at the eighty, optimum of them of these years she is canseira and boredom It says the salmista (Salmo 90).