I just need a restful sleep,
I want to hear no bells anymore.
Bells—what a metaphor!
Siren songs,
or fairy tales,
no lullabies,
no more whispers,
no sore heartbeat,
nor a ripple in the air—come on!
I don’t want to hear anything,
I just need a restful sleep!

Between me and this world, one of us doesn’t deserve the other. I just can’t figure out which one.

My love, why don't you return my greetings?
Have you forgotten the intimate moments we shared?
What is wrong with me, standing beside a grave,
Greeting the one who has already passed away?

My love, why don't you answer my greetings?
Have you forgotten all the moments we once shared?

If you were to disappear,
On any random night,
My bitter, my sweet,
I'd go crazy, heading to the river.

With a whole sack of clay
And a back made of twigs,
To recreate you from scratch
With my own two bare hands.

An unending endeavor, I know,
To revive you, my dear,
Just as the sick Pygmalion.
Come on, now move, Galatea!

If you were to disappear,
My bitter, my sweet,
I'd journey to the icy lands,
To mold you from cold icicles.

To clothe you in a frosty drizzle,
My bitter, my sweet.
Then you could leave
Anywhere the spring please.

If you were to truly fall,
In the moment of great rapture,
I would come to you, quietly,
To recompense you from angels.

And afterward, I would depart,
All humbled and illusory,
To there where my home is:
A small garret in purgatory.

If you were to disappear,
My bitter, my sweet,
From my laughter and my tears,    
I would find you within me,
I would build you from myself.

May your death be the only life,
If you were to disappear truly,
On any random night,
My bitter, my sweet.

Beloved night,
never like now
have I felt your
absence,
as I lose you in the
uncertainty
of the dawning day
that breaks the thread
binding me
to my life.

It's a droopy, dusty afternoon,
Ramshackle, much like my own soul;
And it is this old anguish,
Nestled in everyday hypochondria.

I cannot grasp, not even in the slightest,
The cause of this anguish,
Then I remember something,
And upon remembering, I say:

Yes, I was a child, and you,
You... my companion.

No, it's not true, anguish, I know you;
You are the yearning of a life well-lived,
And the loneliness of this heart,
Of a ship without a shipwreck or star.
    
Like a misplaced key, and a book lost
In the attic, like the flickering candles—
So I go, like a whimsical poet,
With a soul of melody, of melancholy,
Forever seeking you, my morning star.