Summer has already passed

already pouncing above it

are the swans clouds in a chain

the thistle has wilted

and the column of rain

beyond the horizon stands.

​

The world is in bloom,

but the heart still listens

to the gloom connected with the eye

When the summer had passed

and from the ground is drawn

the white blade of a squill.
 

In the gardens

Earth has already counted its children

In the granaries

The hay on itself had been piled

In the avenues

In the fences

The sheep put on their wool

In the vineyards

The vines fold their leaves

In the furrows

the soil browns line to line

At the heights

The nights are already over them

in the oppressed

The flute of the wind was seized.

Because summer has passed

Because floating over it

is the hidden sail of winter:

The days are getting shorter

longing and sorrow as a String ...

and a farmer expects it

how on the cold morning,

summer is turning its back,

and a piece of land,

his blood in its blood

awaits the seeds and rain.