The wind will crack branches,

The mist will come in its white dress,

There will have leaves everywhere

Lying on pebbles,

October will hold its revenge.

 

The sun will barely go out,

Our bodies will hide under pieces of wool,

Lost in your scarves,

You will meet at dusk,

October asleep at the fountains.

 

There will certainly be,

On the tin tables,

Some empty vases lying around

And clouds caught in antennas.

I will offer you flowers

And color tablecloths

For October not to take us.

 

We will go at the very top of hills

Looking at whatever October illuminates,

My hands on your hair,

Scarves for two

In front of the bowing world.

 

Certainly,

Leaned on benches,

There will be a few men to remember

And clouds caught in antennas.

I will offer you flowers

And color tablecloths

For October not to take us.

 

And, doubtless, one will see

Some drawings on windows’ mist appearing.

You, you will play outside

As the children of the North,

October will maybe stay.

You, you will play outside

As the children of the North,

October will maybe stay.