Like the one who leaves his country

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Like the one who leaves his country
with the heart determined never to return,
leaving friends and children weeping,
each one holding onto his legs
crying: "We want to go with you.
Oh, don't leave us sad and sorrowful!"
and he is forced to leave them:
who can know this one's great suffering?
I confess to God and then to you
that I am like the one I've talked about,
for all delight is kept away from me
and you will never see me happy.
Not only have I lost delight,
but suffering has taken its place,
for I am annoyed that I've lost love
and I'm crushed by the blow I've always feared.
Nothing less than death has happened to me:
it can do no more than make me lose the world
but I give my part of this to everyone,
because I don't love and can't be loved.
Everything I see brings to my mind
the present misfortune and the one to come.
When black is near, white shines brighter:
a small pleasure makes my suffering worse.
I can't say I feel the pain of death:
my body is sound and the spirit ill
from a misfortune which in life has thrown
me into such a state that I'm not alive or dead.
My mind takes no delight in knowing
and my will wants nothing pleasant.
I live in the world and I despair of it,
if I think of another, it doesn't lighten my hope.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I don't know who I am talking to
because I haven't spoken to love for ages
and there is no woman who doesn't feel my sadness.
That is why I don't have any feeling.


Autor(es): Ausiàs March, Raimon

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