Oh, you virgins who drink from fresh fountains,
You beings of loneliness, eager for infinity,
Flee from that Satyresse with haughty eyes,
The light of which tarnishes even the sun.
Her tawny hair resembles a mane
And her step, the nocturnal step of lions.
Her den smells of thyme and briar.
She waits for that intense time when evening falls,
For that's when she carries away her prey.
Those with bodies unviolated and faces pure
She sacrifices to the excess of her pleasure
And impregnates forever with her obscure desires.
Her presence taints the freshness of fountains,
Her breath corrupts the songs of infinity
And makes you miss her lecherous haughtiness
With dreams tarnished by the smell of her kisses.