Don't ask me for a humble song anymore
For its voice is mute in me
And if I'm silent, chide me not for that
Don't you want flowers from wheat...
For I am of the damned of this world
I can be proud and haughty
And my love, Brother, is double winged:
From admiration to scorn
When deep in the heart a cruel crimson
Is wrought by the weaver of pain
Sad - but with such sadness it saddens God -
Royal silence is ours to keep.