Oh Boatman, do not go without me:
I have a little silver and gold,
I have this little book of poems
and a handful of dead flowers.
Once I had a small dead bird
but I had to throw it away
when it began to smell too bad.
Boatman, Boatman, whose is that faded image
I think to see on your old and tattered sail;
it seems somehow familiar...
Boatman, Boatman, please wait a moment longer,
Spring is only just around the corner
- I would like to gaze once more upon a dewwy meadow,
I would like to be kissed by a cloud,
I would like to feel the perfumed breast of Flora
pressed against my face,
feel the grace of her breath
mingling one last time with mine
and brush her lips like honeyed wine;
is there yet a little time?
Waterfalls flee before my feet,
streams and rivers fall from my eyes,
forests and mountains weigh me down
with their memories and wisdom,
little children gambol and play in my bloodstream,
a hundred men and women make love in my loins
- yet still, for all that, today is a fine day
to say farewell to the world.
Sometimes to linger is too painful.
Oh Boatman, do not go without me...