You solitary little bird, come evening
Of the life that the stars will grant you,
Sure of your custom
You will not mourn; for it is the fruit of nature
Every one of our whims
To me, if I do not obtain
To avoid the detested threshold of old age,
When these eyes turn to another's heart,
And the world will be empty for them, and the future day
More tedious and gloomy than the present day,
What will such a desire seem like?
What of these my years? What of myself?
Ah, I will regret, and often,
But hopelessly, I will turn back.