You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
If you were music, I would listen to you ceaselessly, and my low spirits would brighten up.
Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue
t was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.
Forgive me, that I manage badly, Manage badly but live gloriously, That I leave traces of myself in my songs, That I appeared to you in waking dreams.
I have a lot of work to do today; I need to slaughter memory, Turn my living soul to stone Then teach myself to live again.