Oh, linen, mature, that I want to weave
into bed sheets where my lover
will sleep soon, soon he will return!
(He has to come back with the spring.)
Oh, rose, your dark bud unfurls!
You must be the bouquet that perfumes this parlor.
Collect colors, gather fragrance,
open yourself up so my lover arrives.
I will fasten his legs with crickets of gold.
Lightweight chains of the cleanest steel,
I will order with haste, with haste to the blacksmith
love, so he makes them sparkling and eternal.
And I will sow poppies throughout all of the garden.
He never remembers the paths nor the routes!
Fatigue: your bandages squeeze his nerves.
Comfort: I know the dog that guards the gate.