Occitan song

Tell me how I find myself here, pale Fiammetta!
shaded in the draping, still solicitous for you,
after all, the leaves about your crown are only in a fetter
overseeing narrow birch and further vulnerable rue;
- so tell me how the gardener became a fire-setter?

and how the barkless branches take the brew;
Fiametta! when you've told me I will stand your ever-debtor,
even if I cannot help but think such upkeep is my due -

When the opening buds are burning but the petals will not die,
And we pass beds that are composted by whooping in their sleep,
You must show me, Fiammetta, where the brambles have to vie
for the chance to flourish gently and to confidently creep
around that bough that irrigates from savour back to sigh -

I'd slum in the silver garden shed beyond the bonfire heap.