Name of the morning
Wrongfully you left us
With a poor grey mourning
Stopping your brusque journey

Now the wind sing: I won’t blow anymore
As much as there is nothing, nowhere
To swing or caress
As long as there is no worth in this glade

And I avail these words
To beg the wind to swept
The warmest yearned breeze
To dry all the mourned tears  

Tonight, between Aphrodite and Ares
A new Goddess takes ambrosia
While I still shake off the grave-soil
From my shoes and the shovel

YOU are the most beautiful and youthful Goddess Olympus has ever welcomed