Oh, Stranger Day, don't stay on those pinky hills!
Don't let the dawn deform your features, so attractive.
Why did you condescend to my and pits' appeals?
I recognize you there. Urbino's your land, native.

Oh, Holly Day, go back to Italy of yours,
There's still a winter here, and our men make a trouble,
A jealous hunchbacked dwarf, I look at you, quite lost,
And kiss tails of your garb - quite serious and humble.

So, is it not enough - the pocked cheeks and lungs?
To add, the silly brush and paints, despising orders.
Oh, Day-Perfection, pray go away at once!
Our shepherdess conceals a knife under her bodice.

But kindly looked at us the godlike Day, again.
And brothers told mid them: "Brother, please meet my bow!"
And aft the hundred years, the Day of Our Saint,
For three our hamlets, poor, had passed without a row.

Unmarked, had gone away Day-Light, Day-Raphael…
But flourished the dead oak amidst the plaintive vastness,
And over our heads, the blissful sunset spelled,
And pilgrims crossed themselves at ruins in the darkness.