At the hushing of the orchestra, veiled

feminine shadows pass below the branches,

through whose falling leaves are filtered icy

chimeras of moonlight, pale cloudscapes.



There are lips crying forgotten arias,

ivory garments feigning great lilies.

Chatter and smiles in wild crowds

perfume with silk the rough thickets.



I hope the light of your return laughs;

and in the epiphany of your slender shape,

the festivity will sing in gold major.



My verses will then bleat in your land,

softly singing with all the mystical bells

that the Baby-Jesus of your love has been born.