For poems, Sophie, ask me not, I pray.
When thou art back in Poland’s merry clime,
A flower will sing a song for thee each day,
A star at night will make for thee a rhyme.
Before the flower may die, before the star may fall,
Listen! They are the finest poets of them all.
The stars so blue, the flowers so lovely red
Whole epics, Sophie, will compose for thee.
Know that what they will say, I might have said,
For they have sown the grains of words in me.
And where the silver waves of Ikwa flow so mild,
I used to be, just like Sophia, once, a child.
Now I have left to roam in lands so far,
A winding path is now my only bower.
Oh bring to me some brightness of that star!
Oh bring to me some fragrance of that flower!
I need rejuvenation, so come back to me
From Poland as if from the skies. I wait for thee.