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.
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