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From THE TALK OF FLOWERS

by
 I do not know, whether the sun 
accomplished it, 
the rain or wind – 
but I was missing so 
the whiteness and the snow.
I listened to the rustling of spring rain, washing the reddish buds of chestnut-trees, – and a tiny spring ran down into the valley from the hill – and I was missing the whiteness and the snow.
And in the yards, and on the slopes red-cheeked village maidens hung up the washings blown over by the wind and, leaning, stared a long while at the yellow tufts of sallow: For love is like the wind, And love is like the water – it warms up with the spring, and freezes over – in the autumn.
But to me, I don't know why, whether the sun accomplished it, the rain or wind – but I was missing so the whiteness and the snow.
I know – the wind will blow and blow the washings, and the rain will wash and wash the chestnut-trees, – but love, which melted with the snow – will not return.
Deep below the snow sleep words and feelings: for today, watching the dance of rain between the door – the rain of spring! – I saw another: she walked by in the rain, and beautiful she was, and smiled: For love is like the wind, and love is like the water – it warms up with the spring and freezes over – in the autumn, though to me, I don't know why, whether the sun accomplished it, the rain or wind – but I was missing so the whiteness and the snow.
Translated by Clark Mills

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