The morning is full of storm 
in the heart of summer. 

The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the 
wind, traveling, waving them in its hands. 

The numberless heart of the wind 
beating above our loving silence. 

Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees 
like a language full of wars and songs. 

Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid and 
deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds. 

Wind that topples her in a wave without spray 
and substance without weight, and leaning fires. 

Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks, 
assailed in the door of the summer's wind.