Where is it, the glorious morning star?
That with its resplendent rays warms me from afar
Where can it be, now that the cold bites my face?
Now that the dreary cotton fluffs cloud the sky up high;
Methinks, Apollo’s orb utters naught but a heavy sigh.
Where is it, that playful little zephyr?
That whispers delightful melodies to my ear
Where can it be, where goes its lovely grace?
I call high and low but all that comes back are lonely echoes;
Methinks, my gay little friend is in a bout of woes.
Where is the evening dame’s calming perfumed spray?
That on its unfolding petals sweet dewdrops fairies lay;
That heavenly scent that in the early morn fills my place
Where is it, that wonderful alluring fragrance?
Methinks, my evening lady’s given her last dance.
Why is it that on this fateful day
Should mother Gaia her beauty not display
When I desire joy and fragrant garlands to lace
Why, dear mother, do you not grace me with your blooms?
What is the thorn that made this melancholy loom?
Alas! My heart has been tainted with your sorrow
Though quenched now is my joy, ambers still glow for a new tomorrow
Worry not, your love formerly given I’ll forever embrace
I wait, dear mother, for the day to come next;
Maybe, just maybe, my soul you will give rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem