In the old park, with the renowned clock
Plane trees are just blooming…
Plane trees from the past century,
Bloomed with brown spheres,
Wept by their running limbs.
And the old clock, it can barely be heard,
Being washed by rains,
And by dear old reminiscence
In the sunlight sadder.
By its hidden longings
At the old clock, from the known park,
It was our holy halt.
Of silent dating,
With grief and disillusions.
With vague mute reproaches,
And the old and famous clock.
Forgetting the length of the time passed
Uselessly wiped out by the stars,
Lingers in our memory ephemeral,
And strangely silent
As in a Dali painting.