To the Deserted Square

To the deserted square
leads a labyrinth of narrow streets.
On one side, the dark old wall
of a church in poor repair;
on the other, the whitish mud wall
of a grove of cypresses and palms,
and, before me, the house
and in the house the wrought iron grate
in front of the window that lightly envelops
her small figure calm and laughing.
I’ll turn away. I don’t want
to call at your window... Spring
comes—its white gown
floats in the air of the lifeless square—;
comes to ignite the red roses
of your rosebushes... I want to behold it...