Our season has come!
The scent of pastis and muguet and orange blossom
Perfume the air along the port
It is the time of figs
The time of sugar and sun
Of figs smooth and of figs barbary

Le temps de figues
Whose morning market stalls brim with bright fruits
Exotic, ripe and too tempting to ignore
Seduce you, like their exotic vendor who sells them
And the sardines and squid that shimmer
On the iced stands in the early-morning, sun
Taken by locals and desired by us,
Lay waiting to be savored in pink salt

Le temps de figues
Whose sacks of red spice and cinnamon
Harvested from afar and brought on boats from the other coast
And tanginess of terra cotta whose clay
Is cool to the touch of our finger tips
in spite of the sun
In the temps de figues

It is the time of figs that we wait for each year
Of figs smooth and of figs barbary
A season of sweet sugar from the south
Which pull us toward the water, unconsciously, each year

And the boats in the port whose masts bob and
Sway from the gentle wake
Join us in harvesting the season together
Tasting the honey that drips from the day
And the spice that seasons the night
In the temps de figues