With misty eyes, I now sit in my room,
While the birds and the trees choir outside,
Bidding to ravish my soul with joy,
As I recall my past, or think about my future.

How cruel my life is,
To give me such a feeling-
That I love solitude,
But loathe loneliness?

The moments I live, I die,
And the moments that have died,
Live, and make me sad,
Make me cry.

And if ever was I to be happy,
When is it, Will it come?
Or will I lie still, in my room,
Alone and Weeping,
On these scented books,
Whose pages now feel like blades-
Bright and blinding?

And then what,
Will I die too,
The same way as I live,
Lonely and Weeping...