Tremulous light, the smell of vineyards, the rustic flute
of an ardent nightingale that moans and thinks no more.
Chaste amidst the trees like a virgin fast asleep,
a row of wheat waving on the hilltop.
Night’s pure bird that makes stars shudder
with its echoing soul full of plaintive sighs:
withered roses pave pale carpets
where the roving light of thought is lost.
Near a star that sheds tears, the fragrance of a rose silent and timid, beneath a sky far too pure. These azure tears granted you more sweet-scented aroma, oh chaste sober sadness of the reclusive soul!
And, while upon the breast of every newborn Spring
your weeping will live forever, pure bird of night,
my sigh will perish unnoted, as it falters
beside the fountainhead of your sweet scent, oh frail rose!