We traveled down the still river in the evening,

The acacia stood in the color of rose, casting its light,

The clouds cast down the rose light. But I scarcely saw them,

All I saw were the plum blossoms in your hair.

You sat smiling in the bow of the garlanded boat,

Held the lute in your skillful hand,

Sang the song, that holy country of your own,

While your eyes promised fire, and you were so young.

Without saying anything, I stood at the mast, and what I wanted,

For myself, was to give in to those gleaming eyes, over and over,

To listen to the song forever in blessed pain,

To the song that could make me happy, tangled in your delicate hands.