By the river, in a brook,
the nymphs sat in shallow waters
e n t h r a n c e d
by Orpheus's song.
Accompanied
by the soft melody
of his lyra,
he sang of grief
and the pain
of losing one's heart.
Oh, he sang
his voice rising
m o u r n f u l
like mist on a cold winter morning,
fickle are the Gods,
their hearts are made of stone.
Oh, fickle is
lady Aphrodite
her heart is made of marble.
She gives us love
and takes it away
within the blink of an eye
What a curse
love is
it makes us go
to the ends of the world
in search of it
only to find upon arrival
that our heart
is missing.
