All that I am hangs by a thread tonight

We learned not to meet anymore, We don't raise our eyes to one another, But we ourselves won't guarantee What could happen to us in an hour.

Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.

I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house

If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, / Give me a bitter glory.

We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked.

Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.