The mountains wear wedding wreaths.

I am ecstatic, young.
In my mountains I feel
A cleansing chill.
A gray-haired hunchback climbs
Up to me on my cliff,
Bringing a gift of pineapples
From nurseries underground.
He dances in bright scarlet,
Singing praises to azure,
Kicking up with his beard
A whirlwind of snow-silver storms.
He sings out
In a deep bass:
Flings a pineapple
To the heavens.
And describing an arc,
Lighting up the landscape,
The pineapple descends, shining,
Into obscurity,
Casting off golden dew
In gilded columns,
And below, people say:
'It's the disc of the flameblazing sun'
Golden fountains of fire
Rush down, ringing,
Washing over the cliffs
Like crimson drops

Of crystal.
I decanted wine into goblets:
And, creeping up alongside him,
I poured it over the hunchback
In a foamshining stream.