In the hothouse

High-vaulted crowns of leaves,

Canopies of emerald,

You children of distant zones,

Tell me, why do you lament?

Silently you bend your branches,

Draw signs in the air,

And the mute witness to your anguish -

A sweet fragrance - rises.

In desirous longing, wide

You open your arms,

And embrace through insane predilection

The desolate, empty, horrible void.

I know well, poor plants,

A fate that we share,

Though we bathe in light and radiance,

Our homeland is not here!

And how gladly the sun departs

From the empty gleam of the day,

He veils himself, he who suffers truly,

In the darkness of silence.

It becomes quiet, a whispered stirring

Fills uneasily the dark room:

Heavy drops I see hovering

On the green edge of the leaves.