they may have lost all their leaves and have only their branches left but these, no longer weighed down with fruit and foliage, are stretching themselves luxuriously. A few boughs, though, are still drooping, nursing the wounds made in their bark by the sticks which beat down the dates while, rigid as iron, the straightest and longest boughs silently pierce the strange, high sky, making it blink in dismay, they even pierce the full moon in the sky, making it pale and ill at ease.
my love lives on the mountain side but too high the mountains,
my love lives in the heart of town but the crowds I fear,
my love lives on the river bank but the stream's to deep,
my love lives in a rich man's house but I have no car,
helpless I shake my head and now my tears
are scattered near and far.
at a time when I lose track of time, I shall go far away alone, alas, if it is dusk, black night will surely engulf me, or I shall be made to vanish in the daylight if it is dawn.
I yawn, light a cigarette, and puff out the smoke, paying silent homage before the lamp of these green and exquisite heroes.