Beauty of women, their frailty, and their pale hands
Which often do good and can do all evil.
And those eyes, in which nothing remains of the animal self
Except enough to say “Enough” to male fury.

And still, [those] maternal sleepy groans,
Even when it speaks lies, that voice! A wakeup
Call, or [the] sweet sound of vespers, or new ideas,
Or a beautiful sob which dies away in the pleat of a shawl ...

Rough men! Atrocious and corrupt life down here!
Ah, that at least, far from kisses and from battles,
Something like [a woman] could last awhile on a mountainside,

Something with a childlike and unknowable heart,
Goodness, respect! Because what is it that stays with us,
And truly, when death comes, what remains?