As the somber drums echo my heavy feet
During the plight of wilted roses
To which gray fog lingers against my skin,
I pray to you,
Let your red arrows strike
Softer than lightning;
Let the silky white doves fly
High in the blue heavens.
I wither away from gaiety;
Into moiety, I become.
As petals crumble,
And the thunder rolls,
I know not what might come,
For the clouds defeat the sun,
The night eats the moon,
And the waters rise before noon.
Take pity on me.
I may not all be the Helen of Troy,
But grant solace on me, a Hestia,
A quiet voice and not by choice,