Her golden hair was scattered in the breeze,
that wrapped it in a thousand sweet knots,
and the lovely light burned beyond measure spots
from those beautiful eyes, which are now so scarce;
and her face seemed to take on a pitiful color,
I still know not whether true or false:
I, who had the tinder of love in my breast,
what wonder if I suddenly is burned at sorrow.
Her gait was not mortal, because it’s immortal
but angelic in form; and her tender words
sounded other than a mere human voice;
a celestial spirit and a living sun avatar
was what I saw: and if it were not so now,
wounds wouldy not heal from the Amur bow.