O hour of my muse: why do you leave me,

Wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight?

Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter?

How shall I pass my days? And how my nights?

I have no one to love. I have no home.

There is no center to sustain my life.

All things to which I give myself grow rich

and leave me spent, impoverished, alone.