Turning soon the caw of crows, that pick the broken stalks,
and turn the stones to search for movement in the sand.
The summer morning teems with motion and with life,
in all the smallest places, and across the waves of the golden grass.
The spring is gone, the spring is gone, the day is burning fast.
To seed the clover is, to fruit the trees, to dust the once fattened ponds.
Stalks among the reeds a tall heron, who spears and pierces,
only to take great flight when even frogs have fled the sun.
Horace, I know that some how once you walked a way like this,
burnt your ship behind you, and in exile from the might shine,
of once then Rome.
Could you, if you could, guide my hand, and give me some advice,
to sooth the pains of those I know, who, having given,
now empty whispers receive?
The berries are still bitter, the plums and apples still green.
Not yet the richness of sweet harvest.
Perhaps not this, nor any year.
(The person this is for knows who he is. :P )