Amongst apples of gold a light wind caresses;
you appear to me on high, gliding from branch to branch,
when suddenly the storm rushes up in an avalanche
and slashes the brow of the old orchard.
You flee timourous and nimble, descend the ladder
and take shelter under the lean-to whose bright wall
turns white and livid with lightning flashes
and whose roof rings out under rain and hail.
But now the whole sky turns deep red again.
So, in flower-filled grass which welcomes you afresh,
you advance and reach for, laughing now in the sun,
the damp fruit you picked, there, amongst the foliage.