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True sorrow doesn't flirt with hope |
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No matter how great it may be: hope rises twice as high |
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But spare me these seekers! |
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Leave me in peace |
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Down with them, down, down, down, down! That which suffers, does never hope |
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For they will no longer impress me |
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With all of the solemnity and with the voice of my greatest days: I call to you my hearth, glorious hope! Wrapped in the cloak of illusions |
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Come and sit beside me |
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On the tripod of appeasement |
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With a whip of scorpions I chased you! If you wish me to believe that |
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You have forgotten all the grief |
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Which my short-lived repentance caused you: Well, then bring along with you |
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The sublime procession - hold me up, I am fainting! - of all the virtues which I offended... and their everlasting atonements |
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Yes, good people |
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I order you to burn |
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On a spade red-hot from the fire |
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And with a little yellow sugar for good measure: to burn the duck of doubt |
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With its vermouth lips... which in the melancholy struggle between good and evil |
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Shedding teardrops which are not heartfelt |
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Creates everywhere, universal emptiness! It is the best thing you can do |
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Certainly, flesh and bone, you have no reason to blush: but listen to me |
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I don't invoke your understanding |
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It would spit blood at the horror you cause! Better forget all about it, and be consistent with yourselves! There were no constraints there |
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Whenever I wanted to kill... I killed |
