The Four Seasons – Autumn, Poem by Charles Cros

Autumn makes the rustling sounds
Of our tumultuous kisses.

Dry leaves fall into the water
And on her eyes, her wild stray locks.

Here are peaches, grapes,
I prefer her cheek and her breasts.

What do I care for the sad red evening,
When her pouting lip moves?

The wine that flows from the presses
Is less treacherous than her dark eyes.

Charles Cros

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

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