Great-hearted soul, soothe your child. The angel no longer stanzas to me. I am dried up like a dry brook. Without feeling, the poet soon dies. As the earth dies without moisture, No fruit, but the weed does not wither. You will rise in the moonlight, And a glorious eye will fall upon your face, A dear girl in a fiery carriage. “The time has come, come to me, old man”. There you are, young, and I am old, The tortures of the heart wrinkle my brow. For the choice of love is always wide, Some love flowers, some love a star. I am anointed to praise you. I am the abbot of words in a monastery. You will rise in the moonlight, And a glorious eye will fall upon your face, A dear girl in a fiery carriage. “The time has come, come to me, old man”. I breathe out for the first time and there's no soul in a poet. My soul in her hands shines like a night-light of joy.