The orange trees of Sparta, snow, flowers of love,
sprang into whiteness at your words, bending down their branches,
I hugged them to my small breast and went to my mother.

She was sitting under the moon, worrying about me,
she was sitting under the moon and she scolded me:
Yesterday I washed you, yesterday I changed you,
where did you run off to -
who filled your clothes with tears
and bitter-orange blossoms.