I said:
Tell me, of what are you thinking?
Of your sun which does not illuminate me, o beloved.
I said:
Tell me, Of what are you thinking?
Of you, and how you can endure the coldness of my heart.
I said:
Tell me, of what are you thinking?
Of your might, o beloved, of how you can love me, when I do not love you.
She said:
Tell me, of what are you thinking?
Of how you once were, and I grieve for you, o beloved.
I think too of my sun which melted you,
Of my patience which made you submit,
Of my love which brought you to your knees,
And then spurned you,
O beloved.
I think of elegies,
O beloved,
I think of murder.