Ballade

Misery might forever me enthrall—
Ever unchanged, I thought it would be there.
He is more pure, more virtuous than all;
What I desire is good beyond compare.
His kindness is, beyond all measure, rare.

I hardly dare his mercy to recall.
I am unwise and thus did not foresee—
I was enchained by fear his face would fall.
In the release of secrets, I am free.


Granted me word of favor he has not,
But who am I to hope for a reply?
In every way my virtue he has taught.
It is enough to know he is nearby.
Suffering on in breathless, wordless cry—

Can even bliss be better than my lot?
Even if loved by Pheme I would flee,
Even if by Orfeo I were sought.
In the release of secrets, I am free.

For More

Hunger, vague and dull, settles in my life,
and if there were more to eat,
I would eat again.

I have not the will to reach out my hands
for more.
I have not the will to decide
to reach out my hands.

I am empty inside, and I want to be full.
I want to be dull; I want to be sated.

The more I consume, the less I am satisfied.
The more desperately I search,
the less pleasurable the finding.

It is the same, to eat or to starve.
It is the same, to sit or to stand,
to speak or to be silent,
to sleep or to live.

I can neither reach out my hands
nor withdraw them.