Il girasole, la mia stella gialla,
staring all noon,
come to my tired, tired,
hot Indian summer room.
La mia stella brillante,
bring a little love,
when the moon has sunk
like the folded wings of dove.
Odiare è umano,
O il girasole, beaming all day,
who loves the sun so much,
hate you not the clay?
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