In the fields of Sparta, where the sunlight shines so bright,

A love bloomed like a flower in the warm embrace of light.

Apollo, with his golden hair, and Hyacinthus fair,

Two hearts entwined in laughter, with not a single care.

Oh, Hyacinthus, you flew too high,

Chasing the winds and touching the sky.

But fate was cruel, and the winds did cry,

And now you're a flower, where your spirit lies.

They threw the discus in the air, so high it kissed the sun,

A playful game between the two, a race they’d always run.

But as it fell, with tragic speed, it found Hyacinth’s brow,

And all the world turned silent—there was nothing left to vow.

Oh, Hyacinthus, you flew too high,

Chasing the winds and touching the sky.

But fate was cruel, and the winds did cry,

And now you're a flower, where your spirit lies.

Apollo wept, his heart so torn, he held him close and sighed,

The west wind whispered soft regrets, for love had turned the tide.

With tears of gold, the god did speak, “I won’t let you depart,

For in this flower, you shall bloom, and live within my heart.”

Oh, Hyacinthus, you flew too high,

Chasing the winds and touching the sky.

But fate was cruel, and the winds did cry,

And now you're a flower, where your spirit lies.

In fields of bloom, where soft winds blow,

The flower tells a tale of woe,

Of love and loss, of gods and men,

Of beauty born, and born again.