The heat is spent, fallen a gentle rain.
The summer sun is past its zenith. Now
the time seems ripe to set to work again.
A breeze caresses pensively the town,
laps at a puddle, ripples thrill along
the mirror surface, and in solitude
the courtyard of the apartment block retains
the cherished warmth of walls long sun-imbued.
The candle as before is burning on
the desk; the melted wax still clearly shows
the touch of fire upon it, and as flame
tenderly bites its flesh again it glows.
And, brooking no restraint, the wayward mind
feels, like a curious puppy, free to roam.
It scents about our bed and wants to put
its chin in your warm hand. Tell it to come.
Translated by Bernard Adams