The sickly spring sadly chased away
Winter, season of serene art, the lucid winter,
And, in my being over whom presides a dismal blood
Powerlessness stretches itself in a long yawn.
White dusks are are cooling down under my skull
That an iron circle is gripping like an old grave
And sad, I roam after a vague and beautiful dream,
By the fields where the immense sap is strutting [phew that sounds awful, but I can't think of anything for now]
Then I fall down, worked up from the perfume of trees, tired,
And digging with my face a pit to my dream,
Biting the warm earth where the lilacs grow,
I wait, while wasting away that my boredom arises...
- However Heaven laughs on the the hedge and the awakening
About so many birds in full bloom chirping under the sun.
Well I tried. :-)