The Morning Rain

Night is ending. The stars are fading away.

Now the last courtesans have gone in

with their lovers.

And I, in the morning rain,

I am writing these verses in the sand.

The leaves are loaded with shining water.

Streams across the paths

carry the earth and the dead leaves.

The rain, drop by drop,

is making holes in my song.

Oh, how sad and alone I am here!

The youngest do not look at me;

the oldest have forgotten me. It is good.

They will learn my verses,

and the children of their children.

There is what neither Myrtalê, nor Thaïs,

nor Glikéra will say to each other,

the day when their beautiful cheeks are hollow.

Those who love after me

will sing my stanzas together.