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No voice, no singing, |
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I call at the distance. |
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Only like sad whaleos songs resound from dark fog |
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Mournful the soul lacerating lamentations. |
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Only the silent wind, this one my tears dries up. |
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Only deep silence is music of my heart, |
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Which entwines by roots and thorns of grief |
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Dies hopelessly, slowly and acerbly. |
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In clutches of anxiety flourishes in my soul the grief. |
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The rain of suffering fills up my eyes by paleness. |
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And I deaden by merciful cruelty, |
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I'm condemned the joy to reprobate. |
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My soul and heart now dance in convulsive |
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Inebriation from feelings and moods of this dream. |
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My life is only the shade of sorrow. |
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Is only the pang, the garden of woe and sadness, |
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When the love like shadows in light disappeares, |
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In the light of endless darkness and gloomy nightly visions. |
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No voice, no singing... |
