Ballade: 妹 [Little Sister]

No matter if a thousand times it’s told,
each tale we hear makes echoes as it starts;
each story’s end has hardened and grown mold.
Everywhere I turn: unhappy hearts,
guilt, discontent, and all the wicked arts,
and in my soul as well, these things I hold.
The fate of men and women is a game—
if I am victim of the burning darts,
my object suffers from another flame.

We stand together; though we search and scrape,
suffering frames the eyes of all we see.
There is not one of us who may escape.
Can this be love? And must it always be
so very ugly? Ought I rather flee?
Will my soul wither if instead I shape
life on assurance from that giddy cloud?
Oh, how I’d like to be both glad and free,
and still have kept the zealous fears I vowed.