From a Stroll By the Sorgue

In a misty and pale evening, Gray clouds of anger seem to witness my beating eyes, In this long-awaited calm, I knelt by the pond, My vision melting, I cling to the loss of identity. The sap then became my beverage, Bitter yet pure, flowing from this foliage, No complaints, desired peace of these woods, Alone at the cascade, I granted it that right.