Let it come, let it come, The season we can love! I have waited so long,
That at length I forget,

And leave unto heaven , My fear and regret; A sick thirst

Darkens my veins. Let it come, let it come, the season we can love!

So the green field, To oblivion falls, Overgrown, flowering,

With incense and weeds. And the cruel noise, Of dirty flies.

Let it come, let it come, the season we can love!

I loved the desert, burnt orchards, tired old shops, warm drinks. I
dragged myself through stinking alleys, and with my eyes closed I offered
myself to the sun, the god of fire. “General: If on your ruined ramparts
one cannon still remains, shell us with clods of dried-up earth. Shatter
the mirrors of expensive shops! And the drawing rooms! Make the city
swallow its dust! Turn gargoyles to rust. Stuff boudoirs with rubies’
fiery powder….” Oh, the little fly! Drunk at the urinal of a country
inn, in love with rotting weeds; a ray of light dissolves him!