I, who could have been the best of poems,
A resonant violin, or a white rose,
Have, in this world, turned into nothing;
So here I live, and do nothing.
My life is often hard, often painful,
But even this pain of mine
Is saddled to no fiery steed,
But weariness and empty languishing.
I can understand nothing in life.
I can only whisper: “It may be hard for me, but
It was worse for my God
And more painful for His Mother.”