The grape harvest

Dawn awakens on the hills

the lightning of sharpened billhooks.

Run, sickles and knives,

through the dewy leaves.

The stock with its broken foliage

whimpers like a human being.

Strange pain!

Oh, Rosa! As in harvest-time,

my heart has bled under your hand!

Noon, pouring out sleep,

descends from the vineyard to the plain,

and the scarlet flock of harvesters

sleeps under its burning breath.

She who watches for my pain

binds a bloody grape upon her brow.

Strange ornament!

Oh Rosa, as in harvest-time,

my desire embraces your white brow,

but I mutter curses on your pitiless, untamed power,

which hangs above my mouth,

where my desires will never be fulfilled,

this bitter harvest, that I may kiss it!

My desire, as in harvest-time,

embraces your white brow, Rosa.