Happy is he who deserves, begs for or summons
in secret
The touch of your refined face
3.
Wherever I turn, I fall upon your image
I see it in the flowers, wept to, it sings
to me
When I talk to it[1] about
my sorrow
It seems to me that it’s mocking my tears
Meager consolation, to no longer have the
hope
That I purchased at so much effort
The sun burnt[2] me,
the wind blows from a wintry quarter
Is it possible to live that which I once
lived?
[My] cry is not dead, although wounded
I am well-wishing, as I was to you always
My unpleasant fate has not changed me
Have sweetness in the life that I lost
Temira! Why, when happiness is gone[3]
At the same time, the memory of it does not
perish
4.
O, that virtuous hour, Temira
The hour in which you separate from me
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