Struck by the sun I beat along the path,
Love of the heart is my light backpack,
The song of the girl with the white hands
Is on my lips and makes a sweet fragrance.
She with the face of white flowers,
I could stare at you for days on end,
To say I miss you is a lie,
The rose in my hand is worth one hundred,
This love of mine is far too powerful,
The love in my heart regards only the truth,
So I go as I do: li li plairot
For my love of Romance: quil qua par amor,
And for my love of craft: moult lama de grant amor,
Such is the totality of all musings,
Dare I scour the thousand indecisions,
Or be fixed in a law of corruption?
Dare I place myself among men, churls of earth?
As an ape I hold to right like it is my tree branch,
And with this branch I beat the No into a Yes.
I’ll go for bride like a terror filled beast,
I smell a new day dawning.
My love, the white rose: She is at the gates of the Palace,
Beaneath the multicolored glass I rest my head,
The great Oriflamme still blows in the cold night,
High is the regard for whom who took on oppression,
Swift and easy will be his death,
Light his burden,
Not long must he await the red skies,
Dreamless will be the forgotten, who toil in chains,
They sleep the long sleep and live not,
Birds will sing his name for all time,
The man who buries his fists in discovery,
She is my white flower! I dream of her face always,
Her breath smells as garlands of roses,
I hide in her breasts and wake to self,
Back when I was a kid: Now I know who I am.
Raging outside are the devils amid tempests,
Her embrace is a might fortress.
She is the night and quite of the mind,
Amid the bustle lovers refute quarreling,
We hid from the trembling fools,
My white flower, come to me!