My love, a youth, a lover young, and even the season, wild,
My love, a youth, a lover young, and the season, wild.
That love is not my love, that love, which chooses to halt its stride,
My love, a youth, a lover young, and the season, wild.
This wind, so free, this wind, the heart's own beat,
When to the village it will take her, from her room, escaping to the street.
At the courtyard's gate she'll arrive, shy and hidden from view,
Shy and hidden from view, when my gaze she'll finally construe.
My love, a youth, a lover young, and the season, wild.
Fear of the in-laws, fear of the village's eye,
She'll secretly watch me, extending arms, a stolen sigh.
With her eyes she'll call to me, to my chest she will be drawn,
To my chest she will be drawn, this joyful, intoxicated dawn.
My love, a youth, a lover young, and the season, wild.
If she is angered by my letter left unwritten, by nightfall I'll appease,
From a life grown dull, from her lips I'll steal the hues.
On her tresses, a dark cloud, on her tresses, a dark cloud, I'll pay my fee,
On her eyes, a tavern sacrificed, my love is youthful, dear, to me,
And the season is wild, that love is not my love,
That love, which chooses to halt its stride, my love is youthful, dear, to me,
And the season is wild.
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