I am listening to the orioles’ ever mournful voice
And saluting the splendid summer’s decline.
And through grain pressed tightly, ear to ear,
The sickle, with its snake’s hiss, slices.
And the short skirts of the slender reapers
fly in the wind, like flags on a holiday.
The jingling of bells would be jolly now,
And through dusty lashes, a long, slow gaze.
It’s not caresses I await, nor lover’s adulation,
The premonition of inevitable darkness,
But come with me to gaze at paradise, where together
We were innocent and blessed.