WEATHER VANE

Wind of the South.
Dark-haired, ardent,
you come over my flesh
bringing me seed
of brilliant
gazes, soaked
in orange blossom.

         You make the moon red
and make a sobbing
in the captive poplars, but you come
too late!
I’ve rolled up the night of my story
on the shelf!

Without any wind,
Look out!
Spin, heart;
spin, heart.

         Breeze of the North,
white bear of the wind!,
you come over my flesh
trembling with auroras
boreales,
with your cloak
of spectral captains
and screaming with laughter
at Dante.
O polisher of stars!
But you come
too late.
My chest is covered with moss
and I’ve lost the key.

         Without any wind,
Look out!
Spin, heart;
spin, heart.

Gnomish airs, and winds
from nowhere.
Mosquitoes of the rose
with pyramidal petals,
Trade winds weaned
among the rough trees,
flutes in the tempest,
leave me be!
Strong chains hold
my memory,
and the bird is captive
whose warbling draws
the evening.

The things that are gone never return,
all the world knows that,
and among the clear crowd of the winds
it’s useless to complain.
Isn’t that so, poplar, master of the breeze?
It’s useless to complain!

         Without any wind,
Look out!
Spin, heart;
spin, heart.