Translation:The Black Heralds (1918)/Summer
Summer, I’m going. And they hurt me
the little submissive hands of your evenings.
You arrive devotedly; you arrive old;
and now you won’t find anyone in my soul.
Summer! And you’ll pass by my balconies
with a great rosary made of gold and amethyst,
like a sad bishop who would come
from afar to search for and to bless
the broken rings of some dead lovers.
Summer, I’m going. Over there, in September
I have a rose that I entrust to you;
you’ll water it with holy water
all the days of sin and grave.
If by crying the mausoleum,
its marble taking flight with holy light,
proclaims your funeral prayer, and
asks God that it remain forever dead.
Everything is too late;
and you won’t find anyone in my soul.
Don’t cry anymore, Summer! In that furrow
dies a rose that is reborn often...