If fallen leaves are splashed blood
on our feet, life is a smile
on the lips of our death.
Under the half dead moon you drink
and sing with a cracked throat,
your voice howling in the north wind—
—and comfort the one you love.
Open the doors and windows,
and let the dust cover your loving eyes.
Are you shy
or angry with life?
With my rude fingertips
I feel the warmth of your flesh;
The small fawn lost his way in the woods;
Only the sighs of dead leaves remain.
Your low feeble voice
Screams in my barren heart,
And I, the conqueror of all,
Have broken my spear and shield.
Your “tender glance”
Is like a butcher's warning of slaughter;
Your lips? No need to mention them!
I would rather trust your arms.
I believe in the crazy fairy tales,
But not in a woman’s love.
I am not used to making comparisons,
But you do resemble the shepherdess in fiction.
I exhaust all musical tunes,
But fail to please your ears;
I use every color,
But none can capture your beauty.