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