Wound of love, source to sustain my life with blood always new and light unblemished. Cleft in which the tongue less Philomel will find her nest, her grove, her grief replenished.

Ah, so sweet a sound inside my head !
I shall lie down beside the simple flower
on which you soulless beauty soars.

Then the meandering water will turn yellow
as my blood keeps flowing through the marshy,
moist and fragrant growth along the shores.