My dear Friend, what can I write?
The apple-tree still being white.
Days are so hot and soft that I'm
Just doing nothing all the time.
Nights are transparent and warm.
My garden's closing its rich form.
The white of spring is dying 'cause
The Summer's coming to the North.
I lead still life. I'm growing fat.
The summer air makes me be mad.
And underneath the sad moon light
I always wander through the night.