Don't spare me a lot of time,
Don't ask about affairs.
By kind and obedient eyes
Don't touch my arms with caress.
Don't follow me in spring through puddles,
The trace of my foot.
I'm sure, there only will be muddle
From our randezvous.
You think, from pride I mooch around
And don't get 'long with you and lie?
It isn't pride, to not have wound
I hold my head so high.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem