nocturne in e flat major*

translated by PLS

night weeps. like an old lady who recounts relentlessly:

i hate being inherently unattractive

i hate being scarcely known for my vast sky

i hate my tomorrow that will pale again

i hate my ups and downs constantly shrouded in mists and clouds

i hate my infatuations

i hate my boundlessness even more

which often tends to blind me

the nocturne tonight, reverberating inaudibly in the forest…

as a ghost in this mortal world, how should i respond?

the things i hate, dislike, even those i am passionate about

are so small. yet when the needle of a thorn 

stabs me they become enormously clear and determined

i cannot respond, only to forget about hate and love

with invisible hugs, preaching to and fro on the floor of the night.