The faintest dew anoints my face,
And disappears without a trace, into mist,
Sol warms it like each drop were sacred,
And in the verdegris awakes it, and me,
As a soft breeze gently pushes back,
I reflect o'er long on which I lack, a passion?
A drive? A cause? A worth for me,
But is it sad such things come seldom free?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem