Do not twine garlands of my myrtle for my forehead
Nor pluck sweet roses to adorn me
Make me a crown of somber violets
For I am dying! ! !
The sweet lips of the maidens of Busk
And the flashing feet of dancing goatherds
Will never again quicken my desire
For I am dying! ! !
I kiss the pecks of Lamedon with my eyes
And the white arms of the passionate sea
Which loves this beautiful island that I love?
For I am dying! ! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem