You stand with your head high,
Smiling at tempests and winds,
Where was your mettle born,
From the sun, the earth or wind?
You have a lovely rival in love,
With a sceptre in her right hand,
Lovely foe, with eyes like a doe,
Who can but sing your praises?
A love that never was cannot fade,
Unlike one known and discarded,
From the fiery elements it was born,
From the ancient fire of ages.
Yellow rose, now sing me that song,
That you sing when you want to cry.