Oh, Aphrodite! Why does it rain in the mid of June?
For the fragrance of wet mud or the symphony of a rainy tune?
The echoing roars of thunders and the crackles of flashlights.
Are they to stun or slay the silent and timid nights?
Among the smell of parchments and lullaby of love,
who frees the mourner and imprisons the dear dove?
See! There scud the clouds in the dusky reddish sky,
Are they all rhyming the past or it's just a sheer cry?
Among the twinkles of stars and gloomy moonlight.
Who steals the aroma and the patches of love bite?
The kiss of the dead moon for the glitters of the morning pearl.
Are they the dews on the grass, or the tears of 'you' dear girl?
Oh, Aphrodite! who touches me with a pinkish cherry-bud?
Of course not you, but the memoirs of warm tears and blood.