Borei is the North wind, and Zephir is a breeze in Greek mythology.
You gave birth to me,
like Danai’s big women,
but I bore you twelve stallions
at a run through the fields,
without moving a blade of grass.
but this is enough,
so dry me Borei,
as yo know how to do it in the autumn.
I have no wish to be your sailor,
i don’t like your mildness in Spring:
my thoughts of spring are over.
Now I chant without verse
in a Northern memory of you, Borei,
That Southern mare knows
how to bear in mind
your turbulent nights with Zephir:
Blow away the graves of my cubs
depriving the awards of the new starry mare.
There is only one fruitful year
for the powerless,
there are epochs for
the vehement winds,
your blood brothers.
Grant a run of chaos
and dry me Borei,
as I know that the sky is obscure,
but still exists in the cave of Trackia,
when you, like one before
send me that eternal white snow
of your erection.