Instead of wisdom -- experience, bare,That does not slake thirst, is not wet.Youth's gone -- like a Sunday prayer.Is it mine to forget?On how many desert roads have searched IWith him who wasn't dear for me,How many bows gave in church IFor him, who had well loved me.I've become more oblivious than inviting,Quietly years swim.Lips unkissed, eyes unsmiling --Nothing will give me back him.

True love's memory, You are heavy!In your smoke I sing and burn,And the rest -- is only fireTo keep the chilled soul warm.To keep warm the sated body,They need my tears for thisDid I for this sing your song, God?Did I take part of love for this?Let me drink of such a poison,That I would be deaf and dumb,And my unglorious gloryWash away to the final crumb.

Like a white stone at the bottom of the well,One memory lies in me.I cannot and I do not want to struggle,It is both joy and suffering.I think that anyone who looks into myEyes will all at once see him.More sad and pensive he'll becomeThat heard the story of this suffering.I know that the gods had turnedPeople to objects, without killing mind,That divine sadness lived eternally.You're turned into my memory, I find.

All promised him to me:The heaven's edge, dark and kind,And lovely Christmas sleepAnd multi-ringing Easter wind,And the red branches of a twig,And waterfalls inside a park,And two dragonfliesOn rusty iron of a bulwark.And I could not disbelieve,That he'll befriend me all aloneWhen on the mountain slopes I wentAlong hot pathway made of stone.

The first ray -- as the blessing of the Lord --Across the face of the beloved did creep,Who, sleeping, went a little pale,And then again more tightly went to sleep.It seemed that warmth of ray of sunAppeared to him just like a kiss.And long with these my lips I have not touchedThe tan strong shoulder or the dear lips.And now, the deceased spirits in my longDisconsolate wandering along the way,I am now flying toward him as a songAnd I caress him with a morning ray.

Whether to look for you on earth --I don't know if you're dead or you live --Or about you in the eveningI should for you, departed, grieve.All is for you: and the daily prayerAnd the sleeplessness' swooning flameAnd the white flock of my poemsAnd my eyes' blue violent flame.No one was dearer to me, no one,No one left me this bereft,Not even he who betrayed me to torment,Not even he who caressed, then left.

What was in our starsThat destined us for sorrow?

He was jealous, fearful and tender,He loved me like God's only light,And that she not sing of the past timesHe killed my bird colored white.He said, in the lighthouse at sundown:"Love me, laugh and write poetry!"And I buried the joyous songbirdBehind a round well near a tree.I promised that I would not mourn her.But my heart turned to stone without choice,And it seems to me that everywhereAnd always I'll hear her sweet voice.

I have ceased and desisted from smilingThe frosty wind chills lips - say so longTo one hope of which will be lesser,Instead there will be one more song.And this song, without my volition,I will give out for laughter and parable,For this that the silence of loveIs to me simply unbearable.