Green little gardens,
clear little squares,
bright green spring
where the water dreams
where the water mutely
flows on the rocks!...
  The leaves, withered
green, almost black,
of the acacia, the September
wind kisses them,
and takes with it some
yellow ones, dry ones,
playing, between the white
dust of the earth.
  Pretty maiden,
filling the bucket
with transparent water,
you, upon seeing me, don’t
bring your dark-skinned hand,
distracted,
to the black curls
of your hair,
nor do you later gaze at yourself
in the clear mirror...
  You watch the air
of the beautiful afternoon,
while filling the bucket
with clear water.