'un wyatt mason tarafindan ingilizceye cevrilmis siiri....
no one's serious at seventeen.
--on beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
and loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
--you stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.
lindens smell fine on fine june nights!
sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
the wind brings sounds--the town is near--
and carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .
--over there, framed by a branch
you can see a little patch of dark blue
stung by a sinister star that fades
with faint quiverings, so small and white. . .
june nights! seventeen!--drink it in.
sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
the mind wanders, you feel a kiss
on your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .
the wild heart crusoes through a thousand novels
--and when a young girl walks alluringly
through a streetlamp's pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
of her father's starched collar. . .
because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
she turns on a dime, eyes wide,
finding you too sweet to resist. . .
--and cavatinas die on your lips.
you're in love. off the market till august.
you're in love.--your sonnets make her laugh.
your friends are gone, you're bad news.
--then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!
that night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
you order beer or lemonade. . .
--no one's serious at seventeen
when lindens line the promenade.