Like the one who delights in dreams

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Like the one who delights in dreams
and whose delight comes from foolish thinking,
it's the same with me, for time past holds
my imagination, nothing else good is there.
Feeling that my suffering lies in wait,
knowing for sure into its hands I'll fall,
the future can't bring me anything good;
the time past is the best in me.
I am not a lover of the present,
but of the past, that is finished and gone.
In these thoughts I dally and delight,
but when they fade, my sorrow grows
like the one who is condemned to death
and has come to terms with it after a long time
and they make him believe he will be pardoned
and he's put to death with no time to think.
I wish to God that my thoughts were dead
and I could spend my life sleeping.
He lives badly who has his thoughts
as an enemy, reminding him of sadness,
and as he wants to give them pleasure,
he does like the woman with her child,
who, if crying asks her for poison,
has so little sense that she can't deny it.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
My wise Lady, when love is very old,
absence is the worm that eats away at it,
unless firmness opposes it most strongly
and no heed is taken of envious advice.


Autor(es): Ausiàs March, Raimon

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