I can’t prevent myself from singing,
And yet I’m full of grief and sadness,
Though joy is always a lovely thing,
And no one takes pleasure in distress.
I don’t sing as one loved will sing
But as one troubled, downcast, weeping,
Since I’ve no more hope of happiness,
Ever deceived by what words are weaving.
I will tell you one thing without lying:
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem