We children, born in July, Love the scent of the white jasmine, We wander along beside blooming gardens Silent and lost in deep dreams.
Our brother is the scarlet poppy That burns in flickering shivers In the wheat-fields and upon the hot stone walls; Then the wind scatters its petals.
Like a night in July, dream-laden, our life Wishes to complete its roundelay, Yielding to dreams and to fervent harvest festivals With wreaths of wheat and red poppies in hand.
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