How unfortunate it is for my daughter,
Because then perhaps they might weep,
Weep bitterly over my troubles…
If the nightingale only knew
My sorrow and my pain,
Then perhaps in its song
He would bring me solace
And if my beaten spirit
Were known to the stars
Then maybe they would lean toward me
To my exhaustion in the evenings
But they did not know
Did not know the wounds in my heart,
And they will not sense
What I say on my bed…
But there is one who knows
Knows my discourse and travails,
She is but one who is torn
Torn. O' woe is my heart.
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| The frontispiece of the book of poetry |
