Anemones

... When will the red anemones sprout on our sweet mountain?

... The ribs of the mountain have dried up in this frost!

... And the hollows of the rocks long for warmth...

... When, I wonder, will the red anemones sprout?

And when will the virgin bouquets of cyclamen rise upon the face of the earth?

And when will the flush of spring come back to our mountain!!

... And when shall we come back, with the spring, to rub our noses in the fragrances, breathing the fragrances in the crossings of the paths, and barefoot in the fields?

... A heavy winter it is, this one that broods over our hearts and our houses; the stabs of the cold have gnawed into our ribs, and our skins have stiffened in the frost... and the eye is dim; no lights shine into it from the high mountains.

... When will the red anemones sprout?

And when will our earth sing again in green and in red, in jasmine, and color upon color?

... And this nightingale, on the sill of my window — I knew him yesterday...

He fled our village in the mountain to seek warmth and health here...

There is no song in his throat...

His throat has stiffened in this deadly cold...

Rise, sweet red anemones, rise before the nightingale dies on the sill of my window...