Like the one who leaves his country

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.