You, lark of the morning
See how the night descends
The time has come to fold your wings
And let the darkness take you in
And caress you in its soft embrace
For your voice grows tired,
Your face shows sadness
And your eyes can’t hide
The weight that’s in your heart,
And heaviness has hunger for what lies below.
So do not resist,
But let your gentle soul
Flow out through the gate of the nightingale—
Flow out on the river of forgetfulness.
The flower of my youth, I cast upon your waters
And after many days, it has not returned.
Many days have passed and Spring is no more.
Now the air is cold. Old Father Frost
Speaks in the North wind
And tells of another darkness:
The night that I will enter.
In the dying light, I sit with my guitar
Alone in the garden, amidst the falling leaves
And faded daffodils.
My swansong is finished,
I will hang up my strings
And my voice will fall silent.
May the echoes of its melody
Accompany you down all your paths
The paths of memory that you
Will walk tomorrow, your footsteps
Falling on the tears of morning dew
That I cried in silence and in sorrow—
Tomorrow, when I am gone
For no rose in the East promises the dawn
Of the night I mean to enter.