An evening brimming with purples, rivers of crimson
putrefies above the enfeebled plains,
and powerfully, with the fists of its clouds
pulverises suns upon a green-tinged horizon.
Monumental season! Like October, with indolence
and unconcern, swells and expires in this scenery
apples! clots of fire; grapes! golden rosaries,
which quivering fingers touch with light caresses
one last time, before winter. The flight
of the great crows? It’s coming. But now is still the hour
of lacquered leafage – and it’s the finest.
Sprouting of strawberries bloodies the ground,
the wood reaches her russet hands to the sky
as out there, in the distance, bronze and iron sound;
an aroma of water mingles with the scent of quince,
and the marrying perfumes of moss and iris.
The pond, flat, clear, reflects immensely,
between slender birches with stirring branches
the heavily-rising moon, huge and red,
that appears as a lovely ripened fruit, gently emerging.
To die like this, my body, to die, would be my dream.
Beneath a sovereign inrush of shades and songs
with, in glances, golds and sunsets
with, in the brain, rivers of sap.
To die! Like overgrown flowers, to die!
Too massive and too gigantic for life.
Mighty death would be amply furnished
and our great pride immune from anguish.
To die, my body. Like autumn, to die!