My beloved, whensoever you are just a weeping willow,
Or – in other expressions – a daughter of wooden king,
You will meet your betrothed – like a ship falling to a billow –
So just try to surmise what his land is before you sink.
Try to find his name, ascertaining his native town –
Let your sensitive mind be filled to the narrow brim…
You can offer your wooden hand and your wooden crown –
Just because you have totally nothing to offer him.
It’s a pity – your crown is worthless, your hand is feeble,
Cause a willow is simply a weed near a mighty pine,
But you’ll see him – he is like a bell on a beaming steeple,
So I’m sure that you will discover a secret sign.
And your skin blossoms out when feeling he’s coming closer,
Your September is full of your March, but a little dark.
He will get a penknife from the folds of his flowing clothes
Just for carving a heart on your tender and juicy bark.
So, my dear, whenever you are just a weeping willow,
Drop your eyes in a hopeless reflection to get a chance.
And the leaves will unhurriedly whirl, the wind will winnow,
And the water will turn to a mirror that catches your dance.
The snowstorms will be violent, suppressing your songs with cursing,
The snowflakes will be hurting you through your protective hood.
If you have just a scar, let you cherish it, love it, nurse it.
And I hope you will never allow it to close for good.