Autumn - Constanza
Autumn – Constanza
The season that I like the most;
who cares for callow, shallow youth?
The young know nothing, that’s the truth.
With swallows, on their trip engrossed,
I, too, feel atavistic yearning
to celebrate the season’s turning.
And chestnuts in the fire, to roast,
with rosy apples, ripened sloe,
give off a fragrance old folks know.
That August sun, so swift to boast,
is not so mighty any more;
a wimper which was once a roar.
A feeble and decrepit ghost,
an oak leaf, shrivelled in my hand,
reminds me that I’m not so grand.
The season that I like the most;
with swallows, on their trip engrossed,
and chestnuts in the fire, to roast:
that August sun, so swift to boast,
a feeble and decrepit ghost.
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