It was the prime of spring, and through the sunny
meadows a flower girl was walking by,
the starlings sang, the bees all gathered honey,
and from afar she heard the heron's cry.

She rested at the bottom of a willow
and listened to the blackbird's lullabies;
she fell asleep upon her grassy pillow,
her flower baskets heaving with her sighs.

She found the garden and she smelt its sweetness
and touched the tree and tasted fruits of life
and saw her nakedness, the world's completeness,
and watched goat-footed gods who played the fife.

The fountain swelled, the river's banks were flooded,
a gentle breeze across the forest blew,
the roses in her flower baskets budded,
the orchid's petals gleamed with morning dew.

She oped her eyes and yearned and baulked and pondered -
as dreams turned into semi-certain things
of scary beauty to the heart, she wondered,
'How sweet, how bitter are awakenings!'

Love is a savage master
who'll take it all without
consideration, faster
than you can raise a doubt.

One glance and he'll expect you
to serve on bended knee,
one fling and he'll neglect you
but never set you free.

I have never shot an arrow,
flying on white-feathered wings;
no, I reach the spine and marrow
with much softer, deadlier stings.

I am but an unseen spirit,
and I enter through the eye,
creep into the heart and stir it
with Desire's battle cry.

And I always get a fervent
welcome in the heart of man:
he's my host and faithful servant,
asking me to call again.

After greeting me, Love's giver,
soon the heart of woman scorns
every blessing I deliver,
and I have to sleep on thorns.

Through her heart's grey halls I falter,
rat and cockroach cross my way,
while upon my holy altar
unburnt offerings decay.

Soon I flee the woman's vices;
to the heart of man I turn
where the fragrant sacrifices
on my altar always burn.

The Witch of Clonakilty
approached my cradle when
I thought of Love and Beauty
and how it all began.

She stooped down o'er my pillow
to see me smile and wince;
her pale white breasts have nourished
my spirit ever since.

Her icy eyes of azure
have pierced my fearful mind,
her long wild shocks of ginger
and my blond curls entwined.

Her freckle-dappled cleavage
appears to me at night,
but when my eyes are open,
the witch is out of sight.

She haunts me though she never
comes back, and with a pen,
my magic wand, I'm calling
her image once again.

At the Rose Garden no one can enter
without being torn by the thorns,
we admired its flow'rs from the distance
in the light of the morning of morns.

From the path which we thought was deserted
a young man with grey hair we saw come.
He walked slowly, his eyes were cast downwards:
we had never beheld one so glum.

'He is Life,' one was breaking the silence,
'and he suffers because from his hand
everybody receives joy and pleasure,
but he knows it must come to an end.'

'He is Angst,' said another. 'The burdens
of mankind, every pain, every fear,
he must carry, and yet he is conscious
that he will not make one disappear.'

'He is Hate,' claimed the third. 'Though he's calm now,
though he still is enduring the stench
of injustice that others committed,
he will soon start to think of revenge.'

They turned round and awaited my judgement;
I was thoughtfully shaking my head,
and the tears in my eyes gave the answer,
'Only Love could be ever that sad.'

The first time that I saw her,
she wasn't anywhere
with eyes full of young vigour
and daisies in her hair;
minuetting to the music
of Dionysian flutes,
she only wore a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

She dances to the carols
of nightingale and lark,
she dances in the sunlight,
she dances in the dark;
light as the dandelion's
slow-drifting parachutes,
she only wears a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

And when she walks the pastures
where crows and cattle feed,
embraces rain and thunder
or sleeps amidst the reed,
and when she lifts the chalice
or tastes of mellow fruits,
she only wears a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

The last time that I'll see her,
she won't be anywhere
with eyes full of young vigour
and daisies in her hair;
with her I shall be leaving,
returning to my roots:
she'll only wear a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

When they told me the girl was a tree witch,
I ran off to the forest and shinned
up a birch for a glance at her cleavage
and her purple hair in the wind.

Like the dewdrops adorning the heather
in the morning when all things remain,
I enjoy the most turbulent weather
with her purple hair in the rain.

How I long for a happy tomorrow
and the peace I can never find
with the weight of this planet’s sorrow
and her purple hair on my mind.

Reflecting every city light,
the rain-soaked streets glow in the dark;
the river dances in the night.

An unsuspecting swan takes flight,
disturbed by an approaching barque,
reflecting every city light.

The flashing neon signs invite
the restless in to leave their mark.
The river dances in the night.

She speaks, and her clear eyes shine bright
with an invigorating spark,
reflecting every city light.

And as we slowly stroll where white
dim lamps illuminate the park,
the river dances in the night.

And yet she will not hear my plight,
and to my pleas she will not hark.
Reflecting every city light,
the river dances in the night.

No grave is that wide and
no wall is that high,
when two find each other,
all odds they'll defy.

No weather that ghastly,
no night that complete,
when two seek each other,
each other they'll meet.

There may be some moonlight,
there may be a star,
there may be a lantern
that shines from afar.

There will be a ladder
or bridge on that day;
when two love each other,
fret not 'bout the way.

(Translation of Klaus Groth's Keen Graff is so breet)

A lass is every temple's lootress
and feeds all masterpieces' roots
like this flamingoesque sixfootress
in mini skirt and leather boots.

Her form is lithe just like a willow,
Her hair as silky as a fawn:
I want to see them on my pillow
at twilight and at break of dawn.

She makes Her subjects feel like midgets;
a beech amongst the rampant grass
She watches, and with gracile digits
She gingerly holds up Her glass.

As I look up, Her china shoulders
nobly surmount Her svelte physique;
this bracing nymph keeps Her beholders
enthralled by Cynthian mystique.

As She looks down on Her dominions,
She wafts Her scapulae some more,
portentously like copper pinions
of Stymphalides upon the shore.

Her movements are of most exciting
slightness; an aspen to my taste,
She sways Her back and those inviting
firm nates beneath Her lofty waist.

Infinite legs that cause the leaven
of wits sealed many early fates:
white birches with their tops in heaven,
grand columns at the pearly gates.

To sing is my eternal duty,
to want Her is my arrogance -
I'm captured by Her vernal beauty
and by Her mischievous innocence.

She is the oracle's connection,
for beauty, as we know, is truth;
over Her juvenile perfection
I quicken my azoic youth.

And as I stare at this beguiling
enchantress with the marble hips,
She looks at me, and She is smiling
with russet eyes and scarlet lips.

Her velvet voice is mere temptation,
She says Hello, She says Goodbye;
pray tell if this is admiration
or mockery that's in Her eye.

I quiver as Her pupil glisters;
in pining songs I still recall
I've praised so many of Her sisters,
but She's the Lady of Them All.

My lyre sounds as if strung by fairies,
and Pegasus on satin wings
takes me away from Her and carries
me to Her image at the springs.

Since satyrs on the flute are playing,
since Aphrodite's maiden splash,
Himeros' votary was praying
to see the Goddess in Her flesh.

And here She stands with arms akimbo,
in splendour too divine to tell -
to watch Her artless grace is limbo,
not to make love to Her is hell.

For countless aeons I awaited
the coming of a deity -
now this Olympian caryatid
descended to unsettle me.

If I could read your mind - or write it,
if I could make my feelings heard,
if I could calm my urge or fight it -
if you would only say the word!

I'd bring you where the night discloses
the starlit welkin for a few,
I'd lay you in a bed of roses
and lap the trembling petals' dew.

I should walk over and beseech you
to dance with me, but I'm too weak:
I wish I had a hand to reach you,
I wish I had a mouth to speak!

My brains stand still, my heart beats faster,
and something tells me that I must
explore your skin of alabaster
and fill you with bohemian lust.

You dance in front of me, pretending
you're unaware of what you do
to me, that you've no understanding:
my mind and soul devolve on you!

Don't heed the other dance floor creatures,
their skinny legs, their wobbly chests;
just turn around and press my features
with force against your planar breasts.

Then kiss me with the kiss of fashion
and let our lips and bodies burn,
and open your abyss of passion
to one who never will return.

I gawp at Her, a sensual gaby
who fears and seeks Her magic spell,
but She can't read my thoughts - or maybe
She can, and reads them far too well.

You six foot something from the Hazel People,
you Queen of Amazons, I want no more
than to investigate and to explore
your temple from the altar to the steeple.

Bewitch me, serve me, honour and adore me,
for in the flicker of the candlelight
there's something that could save my life tonight:
two yards of female flesh spread out before me!

We know not where we go, we know not whether
we'll reach our destinies; I only know
that you won't stay with me, but let us go
these seven inches of the way together.

Tigress, tigress of the dance floor,
through the jungle of your mane
shines your fatal spotless beauty
like a messenger of death.

Tigress, tigress of the dance floor,
and your fiery eyes of gloom
sparkle through the crowd like comets:
you can kill without a touch.

Tigress, tigress of the dance floor,
and the glamour of your teeth
dazzles every man; the victim
wants to feel them in his flesh.

Tigress, tigress of the dance floor,
and so slender are your hands,
lethal are the nails they carry,
though they'll never cut my skin.

Tigress, tigress of the dance floor,
to the rhythm of the beat
bends your tall and graceful body,
getting ready for the pounce.

Tigress, tigress of the dance floor,
and your leather mini skirt
covers little of the glory
feline human thighs can hold.

Tigress, tigress of the dance floor,
perfect lady, perfect beast,
it's your only imperfection
that I'll never be your prey.

Their breasts are white, their necks are long,
they're noble and they're free,
so dark and serious their eyes
that keep their mystery.

As nude as God created them
they swim the Sligo Bay,
but there's a swan most beautiful
I'll never see that way.

Will I see her, will I see her?
No, it's not that I still care,
but as I am back I wonder:
would she still be living there?

You won't see her, you won't see her -
Sligo's bigger than before.
Even if you though should meet her,
it won't hurt you anymore.

I have seen her, I have seen her,
tall and graceful, dressed in grey,
but the lovely Queen of Beauty
saw me not and walked away.

With many girls I've been,
and I have done my stuff,
but I have never seen
so wild a bit of fluff.

This is the love I seek,
this is the love I'll find:
your lipstick on my cheek,
your front piece on my mind.

Together we will join
the force of Eros' spells:
your front piece on my groin,
your lipstick somewhere else.

Her lips around the mouthpiece,
her fingers on the flute,
her salient breasts dilating,
she's lush beyond compute.

Her eyes of sapphire smiling
at me, her golden hair
framing her shapely shoulders,
she's bathing in my stare.

The music briskly carries
her sensual attribute,
her lips around the mouthpiece,
her fingers on the flute.

Somebody grabs you by the hand.

She's whirling around, and her sunset hair
looks like leaves of the rose when in autumn they fall,
providing your heart with fulfilling despair
and a conscious desire, and you think you recall:
you've seen her as a Celtic queen,
as a goddess with staff and tiara,
and hold on tight to what you've seen;
you're dancing with Tamara.

Her beauteous freckles on your mind,
her shapely body which denies
the imperfections of mankind,
the knowing smile in her vibrant blue eyes,
her vibrant blue eyes so intense and so bright,
underlined by her subtle mascara,
you'll never take one step aright;
you're dancing with Tamara.

Her luring perfume in your nose,
her breast on your shoulder, your hand on her waist,
you step - and step right on her toes,
and feel as utterly misplaced
as a hippo in a filly pen,
still you feel like the High King of Tara
and never want to leave again;
you're dancing with Tamara.

She speaks. To watch her standing there
as temptingly her pint she sips
and looks at me, it drives me insane
to think of the things she could do with those lips.

She smokes. To watch the flame she holds
as she lights the cigarettes of her friends
and looks at me, it drives me insane
to think of the things she could do with those hands.

She walks. To watch those splendid legs
that from her well-shaped mounds arise -
she looks at me, it drives me insane
to think of the things she could do with those thighs.

She smiles. To watch her vibrant eyes,
her body, each and every part;
she talks to me, it drives me insane
to think of the things she could do to this heart.

Your age shows in beauty: your raven hair,
your lissome body, your genuine smile,
your mature magnificence and grace,
your mystical eyes, your view of the world
have filled me with passion.

You don't look a day under forty, and still
the liveliness of your aquiline features,
your joy on the dance floor, your raunchy voice
and the way you whirl your husband around
spin all my heart to the very core.

She is the lady of my thoughts.
In all this planet's towns and ports
there is no woman I could find
so captivating heart and mind.

Her hair is blacker than the crows
Chowpatty lodges, and it flows
with mystically enchanting grace
around the world's most comely face.

Her eyes are darker than the night,
and yet their sparkle is so bright
that all the rocks she looks upon
turn into temples of the sun.

Her touch is softer than the kiss
of butterflies in vernal bliss
who rest upon your arm and then
playfully fly away again.

Her smile and presence give me wings.
If I knew girls at all the kings',
sultans' and maharajahs' courts,
she'd be the lady of my thoughts!

Dreamboat, don't sail by,
for the night is nigh,
and the ocean is rough when the storm clouds have spoken,
your prow will be smashed, your tall masts will be broken -
Dreamboat, don't sail by.

Dreamboat, don't sail by,
see the clouded sky;
here's a harbour to anchor, a galley to capture,
a soul to destroy at your pleasure and rapture,
Dreamboat, don't sail by.

He silently watches her boarding the train
with all of the others, with whom she'll remain
throughout the whole journey they're ready to start,
the haute école rider who burns up his heart,
who's vainly amused at the way he must feel
whose laughter is fake but whose tears are real.

The pitiful clown, the director's young wife:
the pauper and queen of circus life -
she deems him unworthy of shaking her hand.
He goes with the animals - they understand
his woes and vexations on which he'd discourse:
he sits on a box, and he talks to her horse.

A gentle voice answers – he pricks up his ears,
and out of the shadows the rider appears;
she leans on her horse as the siren-in-chief
and tenderly smiles as she shares in his grief.
Her words of compassion seem kind and sincere
and mellow his heart to a meadow of cheer.

She lowers her voice so they cannot be heard.
There's no need to tell him to breathe not a word;
the others would laugh, and the girl would deny
there ever was more than her passing him by.
She looks in his eyes and she sees that he knows:
their grand conversation is under the rose.

              - 

He sits in the silence his goddess has left;
the morrow will see him of friendship bereft
when she will not grant him as much as a glance.
But still he will cherish – forever, perchance -
this moment of joy he can never disclose:
this grand conversation was under the rose.

Inspired by the Jack B. Yeats painting

This Grand Conversation was under the Rose

Since I have entered your event horizon,
I'm out of orbit, and it is implied
no force will bring me back, thus I shall never
again be seen by anyone outside.

So strongly drawn to you, it’s clear our forceful
negative radial velocity
has caused a shift I can't reverse and messes
with my accustomed radian frequency.

Now that there's no way out at all, not even
the speed of light, I have to let you know
my deepest feelings and how much you matter,
so take me in and never let me go.

When God created big and small,
the sun was shining without cease,
and so man had to struggle all
God-given hours their Lord to please.

The Prince of Darkness in sublime
foresight brought night to man; that's how
they suddenly had lots of time
for pleasures God did not allow.

God, as a man opposed to fun,
countered the spell, his laws to keep:
after they had their day's work done,
he let his creatures fall asleep.

But his commandments are not ours,
enforcing them he has no right,
and still we steal some happy hours
before we go to sleep at night.

Tinkey tinkey, have a drinkey:
every drink from me is free
if you're coming home with me.

Tinkey tinkey, buy a minkey:
you may wear it for a bit
till I peel you out of it.

Tinkey tinkey, if you thinkey
that we're doing what we ought
you think more than I’d have thought.

Tinkey tinkey, sleep a winkey;
when you're back from Lethe's shore
you won't know me anymore.

Let's sail to the Moon after midnight
when the tide of the spirits is low,
for tonight is We're-lifting-the-lid night
in the valley of Where-I-will-go.

Let's sail to the Moon in my galley
made of wood gained from breathing your skin
as she smiles on the hills and the valley
of the bountiful country I'm in.

Let's sail to the Moon with the lyre
that won't play on the Occident's ships,
with the chill of the song of desire
as the veil separating our lips.

Let's sail to the Moon, let us nestle
in the nook we abandoned too soon,
let's lie down in the stern of my vessel
as we dance to the pulse of the Moon.

When all is done that could be done
and my belovèd one is gone
from here into the land of dreams
where she might meet me at its streams,
I gently would remove the cover
and watch the body of my lover;
again I'd see her beauties smile
which have been mine a little while
and might be mine again if she
will stay another day with me.
And while my thirsty eyes are drinking
her peerless beauty, I'd be thinking:
Why is it men can only say
that their belovèd one will stay
as long as she's in slumber deep? -
And after hours I'd fall asleep,
my arms around her, till the morrow
brings ceaseless joy or passing sorrow.

The night will leave this resting country soon,
the lark already sings her morning song,
the early fishing boats now sail along,
behind the ocean hides the lily moon.

And Eos gently spreads her crimson light
and wakes the spirit of a sleeping land,
and longingly I touch the soft white sand
where your belovèd body lay this night.

Your boyfriend or your spouse I'll never be,
I wouldn't even try,
but if you shouldn't spend the night with me,
I'll surely have to die.

Farewell! We met, united, and we parted
within one night, and we might meet again -
or we might not, yet no one's broken-hearted:
the world is full of lovely girls and men.

For this one night our love was deep and fervent:
I worshipped, and you answered with a nod;
how could a comely goddess have one servant,
how could a gifted servant have one god?

A woman’s decency is like her underwear:
as long as we don’t see it, we hope that it's not there.

We're captured in each other's spell
and worship in the sun:
you're priestess, goddess just as well,
I'm priest and god in one.

Our altar's made of flesh, not stone,
our offring's yours and mine:
in love, and but in love alone
the human is divine!

She wants a garland, and she'll give her heart!
She said it would unite us, and she guesses
that nothing in the world could make us part.

Her rose lips shall be mine, her golden tresses,
her body's blooming realms, her eyes so bright,
for this one thing no other girl possesses:

She wants the sparrow's song, the full moon's light,
the ocean's salty smell entwined together,
the wind's soft touch, the gentle taste of night!

That evening I went out into the heather.
The sparrow sang; I kept some merry tunes
before he flew away and dropped a feather.

Soon it grew dark, and from the marble moon's
pale light I picked some rays with tender motion
while I approached the sea across the dunes.

Peacefully dreaming lay the sleeping ocean,
and I breathed in the air of salt; a few
waves stirred, acknowledging my fond devotion.

Then I went home. The east wind softly blew
and touched my cheek; I grasped the oriental
breeze, as refreshing as the morning dew.

The sultry summer night now spread her mantle,
and full of stars and magic were her skies
while I enjoyed her taste, so warm and gentle.

Back home I took those treasures and some ties
to bind them with red roses I collected,
restlessly waiting for the sun to rise.

I brought the garland, but I was rejected.
She answered, as she saw this work of art:
It's nice, but it is not what I expected.

She kept the garland, and she kept her heart.

When Love came to my doorstep
to brighten up my days,
she let me have her body
but did not show her face.

She was a ginger fairy,
a hazel Amazon,
she was a tall blonde goddess
who soon again was gone.

The raven-haired enchantress
became a nymphet fair:
her shape was ever changing,
her body and her hair.

But still she hid her beauty
behind a mask of stone;
I longed to see the features
no man has ever known.

'Oh let me see your face, Love,
that's all I dare to ask!' -
I gently stripped it off her
to find another mask.

She told me not to do this,
as I would hate the sight,
but I kept on removing
her masks all through the night.

'Oh let me see your face, Love,
that's all I dare to ask! ' -
I'd gently strip it off her
to find another mask.

As I took off the last one,
she turned away from me
before I looked behind it
and told me earnestly,

'For you it would be fatal
to see what you have done:
I have a thousand bodies,
but faces I have none.'

Black as the night, your raven hair
frames with a feathery embrace
your delicate magnolia face;
I've never seen a nymph that fair!

Your eyes are blue as is the sea
on spring's most calm and tranquil day,
and I admire their sheen as they
devotedly look up at me.

Your lips that often whispered love
glow redder than the sunset glows
and, opened like the crimson rose,
await the blessings from above.

I stand in front of you and treat
myself to this resplendent sight;
just let me add a dash of white
to make its pulchritude complete!

I curl with my fingers thy shiny black hair
while thy skilful fingers are curling my fate,
thus filling my heart with love's joy and despair:
oh leave me, oh leave me, before it's too late!

My lips are exploring thy glossy black skin
while thy lips the pleasure thou feelst indicate.
Thou knowest thy victory, I cannot win:
oh leave me, oh leave me, before it's too late!

My mind I see mirrored in thy dark black eyes
and all the great thoughts that they proudly create,
I see the reflections so tender and wise:
oh leave me, oh leave me, before it's too late!

With me on thy back thou spreadst now thy black wings,
so I lose the knowledge of love and of hate,
and while I am dying my soul gladly sings:
I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I know it's too late!

Tonight's the night, belovèd one!
The full moon shines upon your charms,
I hold you tightly in my arms,
and soon we both will be as one!

Your breast and lips are touching mine,
and in Selene's mellow light
our hearts and bodies will unite,
and I'll be yours and you’ll be mine.

Once Death was knocking at my door.
So sinister he looked and grim;
he wanted me to go with him
as he was waiting by the door.

I said that I'd refuse to die,
for Love was but a stranger still;
therefore I've never had my fill,
and those who never lived can't die.

He left the house alone that night,
but said that he would come back soon.
So pale and quiet is the moon;
belovèd one, tonight's the night!

From the corner in the lounge
I watched trains arrive, depart;
when I left I realised
that in there I'd lost my heart.

Later I went back to see
if I'd find it in the nook,
hoping that she might have lost
hers as well and come to look.

On Adonis' Day, on the tenth of July,
all passionate men and women comply
with the wishes they read in their lover's mind,
for this is how passionate love is designed.

On Valentine's Day their love they display,
but they show their desire on Adonis' Day
when lovers, according to Eros' will,
the secret desires of their partners fulfil.

My lover says her love is pure
and honest, but the cold allure
of distant passion makes me shiver,
and while my passion I deliver
to her, I wonder what to do;
I'll ask the mountain and the river,
I'll ask the sky if she is true.

Oh mountain, tell me honestly
if my true love is true to me!
If all the flowers of the spring
provide your vernal dress
and all your birds rejoice and sing,
I'll take it as a yes.
But if destruction takes their place
and raging storms that blow
remove you from this planet's face,
I'll take it as a no.

Oh river, tell me honestly
if my true love is true to me!
If moss grows on your bridge's planks,
and if your waters bless
the fragile daisies on your banks,
I'll take it as a yes.
But if your streams refuse to fill
the sea and cease to flow,
or if your current's standing still,
I'll take it as a no.

Oh sky, please tell me honestly
if my true love is true to me!
If Helios' horses gladly run
and velvet clouds caress
the world beneath a smiling sun,
I'll take it as a yes.
But if you show my lover's worth
to me by falling low
and tumbling down upon the Earth,
I'll take it as a no.

We fall in love, we suffer and regret:
this infinite disease of man
drains all our life and energy, and yet
the only cure is Love Again.

A wagtail sat upon a stone
along the river bank and sang;
though ignorant, I'm sure he chose
the sweetest bird parole and langue.

Before too long a wagtail girl
perched on a stone not far away,
and as he serenaded her,
she chirped to let him know she'd stay.

Another wagtail came along,
swooped down beside her, and without
stopping ascended to the skies:
of his success there was no doubt.

Without a thought she followed him
into the air as if she'd known
him from the days when they were eggs
and left the singer on his own.

He kept on singing to himself
as if he'd done that all along.
I left him sitting on his stone –
it's far too well I know that song.

To stop the heart from beating,
to quench the heron's cry,
the chorus is repeating
that those who love must die.

The stream must meet the ocean,
the Earth must face the sky,
the stars must stay in motion,
and those who love must die.

Who teaches must be learning,
who will succeed must try,
who kindles must be burning,
and I who love must die.

Wooing with the voice of pigeons,
cooing like the turtledove,
we all desperately seek
new rhymes for love, new rhymes for love.

We can't count Arabia's flowers,
we can't count the stars above,
but we certainly can count
the rhymes for love, the rhymes for love.

We can colour clothes and body,
decorate a simple glove,
but not grace our poems with
new rhymes for love, new rhymes for love.

There are many words and phrases
we can trim and bend and shove,
but we never will create
new rhymes for love, new rhymes for love.

'Cross my heart,' you say and smile
as you're walking out the door;
I'm an entry in your file,
nothing less and nothing more.

Girl, you better mean those things
that you say to me right now;
if you don't and spread your wings,
you'll be sorry for your vow.

Let me down, leave me forlorn -
you will be the one to cry,
wishing you were never born:
break my heart and hope to die!

The daisy's beautiful this noon
and you, my love, today,
but as the daisy's flower soon
your beauty'll fade away.

It's hard for me to tell the truth
as you are still with me,
but the reminder of your youth
this song shall always be.

The flower of the rose that ceased to be,
her lovely scent, her beauty could not stay.
She came, she left: there's nothing left to say -
her dead remains won't be our destiny.

No life, no summer lasts eternally -
four seasons saw our rose until today
to grow, to flow'r, to pale and fade away,
although the queen of roses once was she.

Now other roses grow for you and me,
but still this plant of pleasure and delight
will be an everlasting memory.

For looking back, I evermore will see
just as it was, so colourful and bright,
the flower of the rose that ceased to be.

If true desire never lasts
and every tree must fall,
how come the candle's flame still casts
your shadow on the wall?

And if our love was easy since
it had no bonds or ties,
how come the gentle summer winds
still echo your soft sighs?

And if one night on swift wings flies
and doesn't mean too much,
how come that when I close my eyes
I still can feel your touch?

And if we've left each other's head
after that night we've spent,
how come my quilt and sheet still spread
the sweetness of your scent?

And if our yearning took to flight
after we've had our fill,
how come that in the stilly night
I taste your passion still?

And if there only was one place
and time for us to meet,
how come that when I see your face
my heart still fails to beat?

Love's Flower powerfully grows
through asphalt and through stone:
she spreads her fragrance, and she shows
us colours never known.

Sometimes a girl is walking down
the road to seize the day;
Love's Flower then is trampled on,
or plucked and thrown away.

We think she's dead, but magically
Love's Flow'r is coming back:
a few days later you can see
her peeping through the crack.

Love's Flower only wants to give
her beauty's scent to men;
Love's Flower does not grow to live,
but still she grows again.

The daisies beautify the way,
the starlings sing,
and new-born lambs salute the day -
it's spring!

The daffodils embrace the sky,
the heavens bring
a gentle breeze, the lark flies high -
it's spring!

The sun declines and smiles once more
on everything,
the fishing boats return ashore -
it's spring!

The night is young, the swan's asleep
beneath his wing,
my lover's gone, the ocean's deep -
it's spring!

While flowers conquered sleeping meadows
and starlings sought their native land,
the warming sunlight cast the shadows
of crow and raven in the sand,
where queen and chiefs, by stones surrounded,
in silence face the western coast,
whose voices once like thunder sounded,
I buried what I loved the most.

Once a middle-aged admirer
came and challenged Atalanta,
virgin huntress, on her hillock
to a race. - 'You know the rules:
if you should win, you're free to claim my hymen,
if I should win, I'm free to claim your life!'

She was leading, but her suitor
suddenly became a stallion,
and he gathered speed; the huntress
dropped some sugar lumps along
the way. The stalwart stallion stopped to savour
the tasty treat and thus was left behind.

At the river she awaited
her competitor and, lifting
up her spear, she aimed precisely,
but her challenger declared,
'You cannot claim your prize. I am immortal:
I'm Zeus who never lost a race before!'

Atalanta turned around and
walked away with a contemptuous
look while Zeus, with eyes cast downwards,
clenched his fists in agony;
in aeons he had not felt that embarrassed
and prayed no one had witnessed his faux pas.

But behind the hill the painter
and the dramatist were watching
with the poet, and they could not
help but artify the scene
of Zeus' mortification; not much later
the whole of Greece was laughing at their god.

Ladies pointed at the picture
of the painter in amusement,
and the mortals were in stitches
when they saw the comedy;
the poem took the country like a bushfire,
and children sang the ditty on the street.

Zeus came down again to sentence
them, and he addressed the painter,
'You shall never make a living
with your art,' and then he turned
against the dramatist, 'Above this judgement,
your name shall not be known while you're alive!

'As for you,' he told the poet,
'you have spoiled my reputation,
and for you I have another
punishment on top of these:
through you my shame will always be remembered,
and therefore you shall never taste of love!'

Black cocks, a few toads and whatever they are
she'd stir in the soup which is thicker than tar,
her warty old finger would write on the brew
the letters that only her foremothers knew.
Into the grimy pot she'd stare,
'It won't be there, it won't be there!'

He'd look in the mountains, he'd seek in the plain,
be scouring the desert again and again,
he'd turn every stone and examine each rift
until he'd sit down and regret that he lived.
'Where is it? I've searched everywhere!' -
'It won't be there! It won't be there!'

The Lord of the Gates, with a questioning look,
would tell him to wait and then open his book,
and as he would ask all the Heavens above,
'And when did this man get his portion of love?'
he'd hear a raucous voice declare,
'It wasn't there! It wasn't there!'