I do not know the distant village whither my friend is gone.

Perhaps my friend charmed by a sybil has gone to a land of magic.

The more I think of him

The more I find myself helpless.

My heart aches under the heavy blow of separation from him.

Now that he is gone,

Who will pluck the flowers from yonder pool

And decorate the dark and curly locks of my hair?

The sparrows twitter on the eaves,

And pigeons fly about in pairs:

In this season of hard winter I am constantly reminded of him.