As I gaze upon the lake water, Helios’ design in the sky
hugs the setting sun, like the branches of a maple tree
merging into a canopy of scarlet-tinted leaves and lights.

As clear as truth itself, every detail of the lake
sings Helios’ ballad, projecting each stroke of his art.

Now, the clouds smudge the heavens, converging
at the dais of Zeus’ throne, up to the immortal Olympus.

The flora, brooded in darkness like Hades’ heart,
beards a third of the great sky.

From east to west, the horizon holds pride for one thing:
the harmony it makes between the heavens and earth.