| 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 With all of the solemnity and with the voice of my greatest days:
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| I call to you my hearth, glorious hope! |
| Wrapped in the cloak of illusions
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| Come and sit beside me 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
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| 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 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,
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| and be consistent with yourselves! |
| There were no constraints there
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| Whenever I wanted to kill… I killed |