Mahfil. v 7, V. 7 ( 1971) p. 143.

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Translated by David Shapiro

First comes the Spring and the literal birth Of Flowers; next bees dance on a horizontal plane;

And in this order Spring turns exhibitionist On the floor of the forest, filled with trees;

The Sun with his horses reverted turns northward, Scraping away the front -- Power too is adorable;

The Spring descends with the notes and the buzz;

And, as the poor petition the good King

Who has a good treasury, and only to help the good,

So do the bees and water-birds. Spring is advancing

And the Ashoka trees undergo reification; the eye is excited

And by the leaves women adjust to their ears,

Driving all crazy; and not so much the leaves alone,

But painted by someone liberal with spring dew,

I.e. whose sole feeling consists in thinking of You.

And the bees have become the cause of their own humming,

Flowers too being motiveless like the beautiful mouths

Of faces all waiting in long rows, burning for honey;

The buds and the scratches on breasts look equal;

(She was bashful until drunk on her boyfriend^ body) And the frost, the frost unbearable to the lower lip Of lips already sore from love, the sun melts it a little, But cannot completely, and cannot undress you entirely;

What Spring wears goes beyond the color red, the all-pervading

Presentiment is Love, net-like, fully-developed, and coming.

And the bees fly after the dust and the filaments of flowers,

All opening in the pleasure-garden, armed love with its flag of dust,

Raised by the rain, washed by the breeze,

"Goodbye anger, goodbye jealousy," words like these.

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