Each thing, in its time, has its time.
The trees do not blossom in winter,
Nor does the white cold
Cover the fields in spring.
The heat that the day required of us
Belongs not to the night that's falling,
Friends.
Let's love with greater calm
Our uncertain life.
Sitting by the fire, weary not from our work
But because it's the hour for weariness,
Let's not force our voice
To be more than a secret.
And so, Friend, sitting there by the fire
As if there forever, like household gods,
Let's mend the past
As if mending cloths
In the disquiet that repose must bring to our lives
When all we do is think of what
We were, and outside
There's just night.
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