And who will tell Summer
that Autumn is coming from behind the hills?

That the rain has ruined the last blackberries
and the fresh wild fennel flowers.

Would you tell it?
Because I cannot.

Who will tell it that those dark clouds
are stealing its sunset?

Who will tell it that the aroma of the air has changed?
That the scent of hay mixed with sunshine has vanished too soon,
and the pungent smell of humus reigns among the olive trees?

Please, tell it.
Because I cannot.