If all my writings are about sadness,
it's no surprise, for a heart in mourning
cannot have joyous thoughts. Asleep or
awake, every hour finds me in sadness. To
find joy is difficult for a heart that
lives in such sadness.

I can never forget this great,
incomparable suffering which brings my
heart to such torment, which puts into my
head such grievous despair, which
counsels me to kill myself and break
my heart. To find joy is difficult for a
heart that lives in such sadness.

I cannot write sweet things. Whether I
want to or not, I must complain bitterly
about the evil which I must bemoan. It
makes me tremble like a leaf, this pain
that attacks me. To find joy is difficult
for a heart that lives in such sadness.