 I rejoice though wounded by passion;
mutuality with my beloved is only imaginary.Whenever I complain of my passion to him, he smiles
like the hills at the pouring cloud,
When it brings rain to them, like a funeral,
while they, in their joy, are a wedding celebration.Does the protected fawn know he inflamed
the heart of a lover in which he dwelt,
So that it burns and throbs just like
the firebrand teased by the east wind?