Translation: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...
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
| Original: |
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929. The longest-living author of this work died in 1938, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 85 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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| Translation: |
This work is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported license, which allows free use, distribution, and creation of derivatives, so long as the license is unchanged and clearly noted, and the original author is attributed.
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