It's already past midnight, no more light is there,
On black velvet lays the heavy somber night;
On my forehead linger memories of your hair:
"My distant love, when, near me, will you alight?"

You are gone. As if you have died. Where are you? Where?
Separation possesses death's woeful might,
In  heart tingles and passions, in soul doubts and scares:
"I'll die this eve and after my dear take flight."

"Love is not joy!", do you know when you said such things?
"Love, it is a wound, one that so horribly stings,"
"Love hurts, it hurts, as only life of pain can hurt,"

"Woe, woe are they whose love is madd'ingly stalwart."
You're wrong. Love is pain, a flame burning to the bone,
But it only hurts when I'm lonesome – as a stone.