Walking among your women

And you often smile uneasily:

Anxious days have come.

The poppy withers white along the fence.

Like your belly so beautifully swollen

Wine ripens golden on the hill.

Far away the pond’s mirror glimmers

And the scythe rattles in the field.

Dew rolls through the bushes,

The leaves flow down red.

To greet his beloved lady

A moor approaches you brown and rough.