I do not want to part from your sweet smile!
(Who blesses me sweetly with soothing bliss)
Even though I know it is for a while,
'Twas not enough for me, that parting kiss.

I will go far away, the road is long,
So far away from you, for quite a long time,
Thus I want you to listen to my song
Of separation's woe, weaved with a rhyme.

But oh! there is something: a light called hope,
Who's my dear friend, usually at my side
When rest and peace are near, so I can cope
With all the pain, like breathing oceans wide.

Although I'm far away on my vacation,
You stay in my binding imagination.

A little bit of Byron lies in me,
A brooding young man with morbid despair,
Whose moods switch so quick, like of the vast sea,
While I stand beside the rocks, winds through my hair.

A bit of Shelley flows inside my pen,
A burning rebel in my father's land,
Not understood or felt by common men,
Where ultimate ideals I do demand.

A lot of Keats sings and dances in me,
Summer airs, nightingales, everything old,
Escaping my pain on wings of poesy,
As he, my broken bard-brother has told.

I read and read and found myself in all,
And so did find myself through my heart's call.

Because the moon does shine with splendor bright,
The puffy clouds are painted silvery,
The weather's warm, and sometimes hot, the night
Embraced by trees and their shadows silently.

No sun is seen, I feel no breeze of summer,
Only waves of heat, bringing out the sweat,
No song of birds, nor songs of any hummer
Is heard, with ears the silence's only met.

I have to close the door, because I'm going
To sleep, but cannot close my dreamy eyes
And stop from glancing at the moon who's glowing
In smooth beauty, that lamp of nightly skies.

I thought summer was most pretty in sunbeams,
But no — also at times of silent dreams.

Had your thoughts been more pure like your skin,
As bright as the diamonds on your soft wrist,
Had you been more away from fault and sin,
Or giving each action a cunning twist,

And had you been more noble than fine art,
More modest like a meditating monk,
From desirous fame and names apart,
And not on an uncontrollable lust drunk,

Your style would have been much more prettier,
And pleasing to look at – without a doubt –
Both the inside and the exterior,
People would not see you as a washout.

But you'll not change until you see that rules
Shape prettiness right, like forms do to jewels.

I've come across a broken lady once
Who said: ''I do not need men anymore,
Who will desert me after a short month,
Because I have other things to adore:

My bright diamonds! look how they shine with pride,
A thousand mirrors lie within their being!
Look how it does never deceive or hide,
Let this be the last thing I will be seeing.

I know! I know surely they will not hurt me,
Hitting me with violent words always cold,
And I know too that they'll never desert me,
Throw me away like leafs when sick and old.''

I said: ''O lady; diamonds will not last,
They'll leave you too like men of your sad past.''