Seasons

I was forever resurrected with
the drunken spring, forgetting my dread,
and on the day that stretched before me, endured as if on a bird's wing,
I buried hell and darkness deep within...

She came, gentle and luminous,
whispered to me in the evening,
under a pale moon, that she had given me all I still ache for,
and my presence would remain there until death...

Then I forgot even myself,
and barefoot, danced among the golden drops of wine,
so who would dare crush my flesh
when the soul was nothing but a drop of rain?!

And in the summer,
a thousand suns seized me,
and crowned with the flower-light of June,
I scattered the mists—those uninvited guests and purples,
sending them toward the burning days...

In my palms, into fires, they turned,
and all my sorrows—
at sunset, dust,
I suddenly felt, in a dog's sleep,
that my only and perceptible sin was not lodged in the heart,
and there was no use,
because I could not stop fate and I cried out then,
"Life was written by another hand, but I will build it!"

She trembled fiercely,
and wildly on the ground and somewhere below,
amid dark depths, amid fire and butterflies,
in an enchanting gaze, with a trail of
dead and rosy leaves, she, my autumn—
rainy and young, blazing in red silvery dusk,
and seemed to draw from the lines—
the traces of that purified weeping...

And the sun warmed me through,
veiled in beads of sweat, I stretched out
longing and eager hands,
stepped into life toward near glory,
and never became a child again...

I woke as if for a fresh beginning,
and steeled by the cunning and evil
of winter—that daring one—
spirit and body...at last ready to be a man!

But still I resurrect with
the drunken spring and summer.
I wait—to grow good, for
autumn love others beg of me,
and with the pulse of winter,
arrive many joyful creations!