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TOMÀS GARCÉS (1901-1993)
(Translation by Sam Abrams)
The vineyard envies the greenness of chestnut trees,
the sea grows murky grey beneath the fog,
the partridge's brown-gold is toning down,
there are shows of dying tenderness in the air.
Summer is departing. And a weary hunter,
with the laconic crack of his rifle,
shatters to bits the sky's clear crystal
and upon the world heaven's flowers are showered.