Dawn is approaching in the east.
 Her touch awakens man and beast,
 the smallest rose and the least
         bud of mimosa.
 Along the path a peasant lad
 with a long stick in his hand,
 leads out a ragged band:
         les cochons roses.
 
 The charming pink, that special hue
 which in the east comes into view
 and drapes the clouds anew
         with subtle splendour
 is not so sweet a sight, I think,
 for my delighted eyes to drink
 as the swine in their silky pink
         so soft and tender.
 
 As the breeze which gently blows
 carries to every nose
 the scent of wild berry and rose
         wafting and straying,
 the piglets frolic free
 with the cheeky vivacity
 and the charming temerity
         of toddlers playing.
 
 They play like chubby happy babes.
 They fill the green and flowery glades
 with squeals and the pastel shade
         of rosy prawn.
 Each body full of health and food
 is so rosy it appears nude
 like a Cupid baring a cute
         and rounded belly.
 
 Freckles of black upon the pink
 provide a subtle visual link
 with truffles, and make one think:
         pâté or brawn.
 Each piglet's rapid trotting gait
 creates a wave at such a rate
 as to cause its flab to vibrate
         just like a jelly.
 
 The boy in the loose blue smock
 leads along the gurgling brook.
 They follow in a noisy flock.
         all snorting gaily.
 And as it trots, each little pork
 takes its hindquarters for a walk
 and twirls a curly stalk:
         one corkscrew taily.
 
 Then when the crickets' gentle whine
 and the church's melancholy chime
 announce that now the cooler time
         of sunset nears,
 they return along the lane
 back to the sty in which their day began,
 each waving still the double fan
         of two pink ears.
 
 And when the light has left the west,
 eyes close of man and beast,
 the finest rose and the least
      bloom of mimosa.
 Peacefully round their wooden trough,
 having roamed and frisked enough,
 bellies full, they all doze off,
         les cochons roses.