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.
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