Beneath the black leaves of the laurel, 'neath the amorous blooms of the rose, 'tis here I am resting forever; I who could weave verses together, I who could make kisses to bloom.
I grew up in the land of the Nymphs; I lived on the island of lovers; I died on the island of Kypris. That is why my name is distinguished, and my monument polished with oil.
Do not weep for me, you who have paused here: my funeral arrangements were sweet; the mourners scratched their cheeks; my mirrors and necklaces rest in my tomb.
And now, on the pale prairies of asphodel, an impalpable shadow, I walk, and the memories of my earthly existence are the joys of my underworld life.