And the song of the birds in the valleys,can never allieviate
The torment I feel now within my heart.
Whenever a small dagger,
O beautiful hand strikes you & makes you grieve
Your grief strikes me
But if pity for you because
Of the wound thus wounds me,
Then may my heart be healed
Wounded by pity, the pity of love
Oh hopeless life!
Oh pitiless death!
The one invites one to live
And then death holds me
Far from all my well-being
The other seems to comfort me again to die,
Always giving me a heavy and painful life
In such strange dispositions
Do I always live-dying.
RENNAISANCE GARDENS
RENAISSANCE COSTUMES
