Don’t look so fondly,
So apple-blossomy.
Stars ripen like wheat:
I’ll feel sadness.
Don’t caress me so silkily,
So bright-falconly.
At sunrise roses bloom:
Fair weather lies ahead.
At sunrise storms seethe –
Once again there will be tears!
Mother woke first, then father followed:
Where is she, our little swallow?
I’m here, in the garden, on a bench,
Among the marigolds...
What will I tell them? “All is so clear to me:
So apple-blossomy.”
1918