Either this sorrowful night is long
Or my songs are interminable.
This dreadful night does not end,
Nor do my songs cease.

How deep are these lakes?
No one has measured them.
But they do not swell up in the rains,
Nor dry up in drought.

There is something wrong with my bones,
Set them on fire and they do not scorch.
Sighs burn them,
Grief scorches them.

These are the injuries of love.
What cure, my friend, is possible?
A touch hurts.
A salve hurts.

The fair night belongs to the moon,
To whom does a dark night belong?
A moon does not hide among stars,
Nor can stars be concealed in the moon.