Meager earth, very meager, burnt bushes, stones;
we loved these stones, we worked them. Time passes.
Resplendent sunsets. A cherry-glow on the windowpane.
Behind the panes, the flower pots, unmarried girls.
Mists rise from the olive grove. When evening falls,
the processing of the veiled ones ascends behind the cypress tree:
they walk a little stiffly, with an ancient, sad pride;
it's immediately clear from the walk: their knees
are marble, broken, stuck together with cement.
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