It was late evenening, first of May,
May evening was time of love,
love was called by voice of dove,
where was the smell of hay.
Love was whispered in silent moss,
flowering tree lied loving blows,
nightingale sang ’bout love to rose
rose’s seen in sight of loss.
Lake smooth in bushes shadow,
is humming darkly secret pain,
in shore’s calm and peaceful rein
and other worlds suns aglow.
lost there for a thousand years
burning where is loving tears.