In the hot sunshine at the end of summer
the little towns, in mallow to their roofs,
with lindens growing up to the very white sky,
with their verandahs
where toys and children lie asleep after their lunch;
so quiet,
so far away
from noisy crossings, railway stations, airports,
those little towns
like grains in an unbending heavy wheat-ear.
August.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem