The Funeral of the Roses

A dream that slipped away from my morning,
and a sorrow that seeps into my wounds.

The firstborn of the roses, its tender buds,
walk with broken wing.

In your fragrance there is a funeral,
sister of the lilies and the daisies.

And the night after you is pensive,
and the light after you is in lament.

The roses walk in mourning,
and the weddings of the fair are choked.

Morning folded its wing
the day you fell with the morning...

I — O love of the swaying splendor
and the indulgent hopes —

I, the day sorrow plucked you,
lock by lock, dying with the winds,

wrapped your fragrance up: in my blood
the memory of youth and of play,

when spring was my pillow
and the dew of spring lay on my sash...

Sleep — I feel you as an intoxication
that floated over my cup and my wine,

as though your fragrance in my blood
lives on a hope within reach.