Oh rhythm of my flesh! Oh melody!

Oh lively liquid Oh what a sweet sieve

enchanting this form! There’s no miracle

in the story of Lazarus if Christ

took to his grave a beautiful woman!

What am I if I not Memnon in whom

all of the light of the universe sings,

a mere channel where the tumultuous

currents of eternal life toss and turn?

Like a brook tired of irrigating

a bitter crop of plants wants to vanish

and for love of the noble sun transcends,

and with joy by its flame evaporates:

Or like a pitcher of happy spirits

that fermentation breaks down to nothing

and by silencing thin threads evanesced.

Like a gladiator without battle

shielded from invisible enemies

loses his life in empty arenas

…Suddenly the strength of youth has returned

as if a new sea and emboldened breast

magnified then waning, fatiguing zest

burns again replenishing the clean air

with soft music and fresh scent of honey

when before my eyes Pomona raised arms

in harmoniously fragrant embrace.