Alfin I saw you, desolate flower,
alfin weeping ask you I will
let you soothe the barbaric pain
that the laughing days poisoned.
May you grow like me: neglected and alone
dress the ajuole that the algorithm touched,
what me, that in the midst of despair and grief
I spend my time alone.
To you, poor Elleboro mountain,
to see the sun not lice of the summer,
don't let me shake that hand
that was so lavish with me.
Ouch, mad! too high I placed
mine was mine, my hope, my desire.
Ouch, mad! Which I didn't remember in love
be along the penar, short the joy.
My mind falters and my intellect
darkens; have thou, O flower of me, pity
I prepare the chosen juice for my lips
that in your hidden leaves is.
Sanami, or at least on my grave
opening the sol to the rays of or,
pointed to her, as she died for her
not a madman, but a martyr of love.