We present this work in honor of the 230th anniversary of the poet’s death.

My young days were oppressed with cares,
On summer mornings I sat there,
Sighing my poor stammered song.
Not for a young man was my melody,
No! for God who the crowds of men does see
As if they were an anthill’s throng.
Without emotions, as I’ve often said,
Without affection, I was wed,
Became a mother, as in times of war
A young girl would not trust love’s bliss,

On whom a soldier forced his kiss,
Whose army reigned as conqueror.

Translation by S.L. Cocalis