I dream of you, my sleeping Prince. The evening light flows
from the branches of the
lime trees onto the fine rippling silk of your hair. The blue tits' shrill
song fills the
diamond bright air of the garden with a fragrant joy.
Ah, my gentle Prince, on this spring day, how beautiful are
the golden pavilions
where your family dwells, the apple blossoms streaming with pink petals,
the ponds
full of white lilies, the plump grasses, the elegant little paths leading
to the ancient
temple!
Snowy water flows all over the plain, reviving orchards and
flowers on its way.
Only my soul is like a sky veiled in melancholy. O young
breeze, hear the painful
song of my grief, be the companion of my sharp-edged solitude. |
