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But love is dark, like truth, and has the bitter bite
Of wormwood, while the salt of sweat grows still more salty.
Time for a change, you cannot live with all doors bolted,
A diehard beast, ad finem, to the final rites.
    The mill of learned books has barely reached its youth.
    Clutching a textbook in a wasteland isn't canny.
    Blessed is he, whose will is strong, and who knows Truth,
    But truths are many, many...
And sometimes Fortune stands before me in a dream.
She smiles and I know her eyes see naught, as always.
Each year more splendid, more luxurious in all ways,
Her riches tease me with their luscious gleam.
    I steal - these days only the lazy do not steal.
    Forbidden fruit and golden coin are both my spoils.
    Fate doesn't care, I do my tricks--she cools her heels,
    But joy recoils, recoils...
"Arise!",  commands my guardian angel, "Life will soothe
Your heart with cyclamens, that come as wormwood's sequel.
Honey of love and bile of treachery are equal
In molding him, whose will is strong and who knows Truth."
    I nod: Yes, treachery is nothing, you are right.
    And even love is hardly worth the fuss we're making.
    And thus my aspect is serene, my steps are light,
    But heart is aching, aching...