Spring,
o blue, tender anemone.
Love has placed its fugitive soul
in the pale desire
of your clear eyes,
but the wind makes you shiver.

Summer,
when the proud reeds on the bank
show the river's path to the sea,
in the evening one sees
thoughtful shadows on the water;
the oxen move slowly and carefully
to their drinking place.

Autumn,
the leaves fall, the souls fall down
dead from the pain of loving.
The women look sadly
to the west.
The trees wave with broad gestures
of forgetfulness in the air.

Winter,
woman, whose green eyes
have fallen under the covering of snow,
your hair is powdered with frost,
with bitterness and salt.
O mummy, and your wounded heart,
open to witchcraft,
sleeps like a dulled carbuncle
in the depths of your immortal flesh.