Little green gardens,
small bright plazas,
greenish fountain
where the water dreams,
where the silent water
slips over the stone!...

The acacia leaves of
gloomy green, almost black,
kissed by the September wind
that carries some of them off,
yellow and dry,
to play in the white
dust of the earth.

Pretty little girl,
who fills her pitcher
with transparent water,
when you see me, you don't
raise your dark hand,
distractedly,
to the black ringlets
of your hair,
nor do you observe
yourself in limpid crystal...

You look at the air
of the lovely afternoon,
while with clear water
you fill the pitcher.