Far behind the cactus that is shattered through the smoky snow
Lightening up from the last scorched sunrays
It seems to grow the last mystic rose that is bouncing
And pinching among the brutal wind of this awful day!
What a delight those eyes discovery! What a fallen rose rises to live!
And with all the wonderer‘s fancy, he looks at her strange restlessness;
Find fire and love from those icy fingers of him letting her warn
In from the menacingly and brutally wind! But how this traveler
Would set across the field and sky the fairly miracles to save her?
Come forth, if he does not want her to die from the heaven a natural halo has born:
A human gardener upon this light of hope; a moment of contemplation
Winding a smile of uncertain appeal how then he can give her heat and roots
From this merciless winter in full-throated whistles!
As light shorten, here and there numberless drops of snow identical to fall
And shadows would be all day and night save what he can do from a traveler’s oracle!
Here, those eyes glance down at this rose where youth’s heart grows passionate
And cautiously not driven completely from despair but such conspiracy blink
Those fingers are squaring blissfully around the mystic rose as if they are a lamp of grass
Not care about the sleepy fingers and palms but about the breeze of heaven
Keeping on with such hard-driving pounds against that quick-witted love!