Oh, season of the poor, you have come down
From the blue hilltops, sitting in your carriage
Of gold, as cool, clear springs gurgle translucent
And as the pigeon-coop of ice and snow quivers.
A lavish bride-gown now adorns the apple-tree,
As honey-bees have perched on the lung-wort,
And, like a harp, nature resonates in harmony,
Singing the splendor of the reawakening of joy.
Yet my cottage still remains closed. Huddled
In front of the fireplace, I shiver from the winter
Of my heart, as around me, old memories hover…
I still wait, the panes of my windows open wide,
And wonder if a merry swallow may drift inside,
An orphaned swallow, seeking its way to its nest…
Arsene Yergath
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
