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Sadness, you descend today from the Sun.
Your mutable species is the cloud
of the sky, and are the foams
of the sea the edges of your long linen.
You look like Hermione, alone like her
that through silence you come to meet alone
drawing the white edge like a wing.
Yes you look like her, I'd be deceived
if you didn't see a lock of purple
on his cheek still moist from the nimbus.
She has many roses on her lap
that the thorn of the last pricks them
his chin and the gem of a garnet.
As a bearded faun
I approach I approach bite the roses
the sordid and lewd capricorn.
Serbian version
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