imperfect agony

Countryside keeps quieting, covered in morning’s peace, hidden under a thin blanket of rime
But a robin’s sounded around and a small swarm of bees gathering earlier blooming flowers cheated by warm winter
Butterflies also sing, and the motionless leaves of small orange trees as well; human hearing, though, appears to be imperfect
Small trees heavy laden with orange fruit patiently await to meet me
I escape into the city, hoping to waste my agony; I waste myself instead
At the edge of the road, on the afternoon, I recall I have left behind small orange trees to grow up all alone

greek version