Scented herbage of my breast,
Leaves from you I yield, I write, to be perused best afterwards,
Tomb-leaves, body leaves, growing up above me, above death,
Perennial roots, tall leaves — O the winter shall not freeze you, delicate leaves,
Every year shall you bloom again — Out from where you retired, you shall emerge again;
O I do not know whether many, passing by, will discover you, or inhale your faint odor — but I believe a few will;
O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to tell, in your own way, of the heart that is under you,
O burning and throbbing — surely all will one day be accomplished;
O I do not know what mean, there underneath yourselves — you are not happiness,
You are often more bitter than I can bear — you burn and sting me,
Lês fierder by Romenu… Lês fierder