Frail branches of arbor
Shelter the roses from the gust of the East Wind
Enveloped in a cloud of perfume
Filled with drops of dew
For whom are they so seductive?
Is it only to provoke the fragile
bu*terflies and the irascible bees?
My heart swollen with sentimentality
I wander in this pleasure garden
And then my drunkenness wears off
My pleasure does and does not return
The moon, sad enough to tear the bowels
Sinks to the horizon, and suddenly
The Spring has grown old