Dandelion, dandelion, flower miracle,
why do you lean on wind at the field's edge?
Where, where will you lay your white head down?
And where drowse, as the late evening darkens?

Wind rises, blows, tousles the locks
and tears the white locks from the snowy head:
over the faultless earth, autumnal field,
carries the dandelion's fluffed white seedlets.

Dandelion, dandelion – oh, my own flower!
I grieve now for your little head bleached white
as I grieve for my new youth, so scattered
by time and wind, at the field's edge.

Could I but change into the field's gray sand,
could I but settle slowly, cold as stone,
the Nemunas above me flowing, flowing...