SILENCE. On the threshold of the forest I don't hear the words you speak human; but I hear newer words that droplets and distant leaves speak. Listen. It's raining from the scattered clouds. It's raining on the salty and scorched tamarisks, it's raining on the scaly and bristling pines, it's raining on the divine myrtles, on the brooms shining with gathered flowers, on the junipers thick with fragrant embraces, it's raining on our sylvan faces, it's raining on our bare hands, on our light clothes, on the fresh thoughts that the soul unfolds new, on the beautiful tale that yesterday deceived you, that today deceives me, oh Hermione. Do you hear? The rain falls on the solitary greenery with a crackling that lasts and varies in the air according to the sparser, less sparse leaves. Listen. The crying is answered by the song of the cicadas that the southern weeping does not frighten, nor the ashen sky. And the pine has one sound, and the myrtle another sound, and the juniper another still, diverse instruments under countless fingers. And we are immersed in the wild spirit, living with arboreal life; and your drunken face is soft with rain like a leaf, and your hair smells like the bright brooms, oh earthly creature whose name is Hermione. Listen, listen. The harmony of the airy cicadas little by little becomes more muffled under the growing cry; But a song mingles with it more hoarse that rises from down there, from the humid, remote shadow. More dull and hoarse it weakens, fades. Only one note still trembles, fades, rises again, trembles, fades. The voice of the sea is not heard. Now one hears the silvery rain that cleanses, the crashing sound that varies according to the foliage thicker, less dense. Listen. The daughter of the air is silent; but the distant daughter of the slime, the frog, sings in the deepest shadow, who knows where, who knows where! And it rains on your eyelashes, Hermione. It rains on your black eyelashes so that you seem to weep but from pleasure; not white but almost green, you seem to emerge from a bark. And all life in us is fresh and fragrant, the heart in our chest is like an untouched peach, between our eyelids our eyes are like springs in the grass, our teeth in their sockets are like unripe almonds. And we go from thicket to thicket, now joined together, now separated (and the rough green vigor ties our ankles entangles our knees) who knows where, who knows where! And it rains on our sylvan faces, it rains on our bare hands, on our light clothes, on the fresh thoughts that the soul unfolds new, on the beautiful tale that yesterday deceived me, that today deceives you, oh Hermione.
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