Collect the blooming blossom, not the bud
unfolded.When the grown subdue to time,
the verdant youths with their veins full of blood
resist the nature’s force, commit no crime.
The flowered soon will pass their primes when they
are pollinated. Then they wither, fruit.
The green buds haven’t yet been led astray
by worldly buzz of slander or repute.
O Vernal breeze! You spread sweet young love’s seed
across Veronese parted houses’ walls.
Yet vines of jealousy you too did breed
devoured the Moor in his Venetian halls.
Beneath my old bark run young vessels still.
This hollow husk awaits your spring to fill.
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