If we were two boughs of a tree
The sun would nourish our veins
...
It's my job, my lords, to sing!
I hug my lyre, all right,
...
My position, my lords, I take
At the end of the corridor;
...
In this way the day slipped
off the slope of the sun
...
The winter tells me I shall die alone
One winter just like this, one winter
...
Restless she stirs as she reclines,
A setting sun,
...