Love, from seed to seed, planet to planet,
the weave of the wind with its dark countries,
war with its shoes of blood,
or even the day and the night of the stake.
Whence did we go, islands or bridges or flags,
violins of the fleeting, bristled autumn,
those lips upon the cup repeated delight,
the pain hindered us with its weeping lesson.
In every republic the wind bloated
its unpunished bell, its frigid mane,
and thereafter the blossom returned to its tasks.
But in us autumn shall never crystallize.
And in our immovable homeland sprouts and grows
a love with the rights of the dew.