What is the issue of love? My subject is greater. With the days, it is a second subject. I don’t know how I drowned while I was on the shore. What was taken from me and what remained of my hopes? I am not well, my heart, nor has evil come with your consent or against your will. Time has passed, baring its fangs. It no longer leaves songs for the nightingales. How long will it be? And the papers of my life are scattered between departure and the alienation of my place. Generous, my sadness, comes from you more. Stingy, my joy and my luck are selfish.