The ballads boast of my senseless rage,
of wailing mothers and tortured breaths,
of corpse-littered fields painted crimson red,
But the poets never mention you in their songs, my love,
you, who held my trembling warrior heart in your hands,
you, who would lull away the soldier’s angry wounds
and murmur sweet words of home into their hair when they wept.
How could the ballads forget your gentle healer’s heart,
and how you would softly kiss my blood-stained tears away?
Why do the gods not sing honeyed praises of
your sun-kissed cheeks, your tender hands, your summertime smile,
your bronze curls that glistened on my pillow, in the pale hours of the dawn
our bitter kiss goodbye, as you marched into battle in my armour,
My jaan, my beloved, my philtatos,
when you died
you took everything that was good and innocent and beautiful with you,
what I would not do for you, my most handsome love
what I would not give, to be buried underneath the earth with you.
