This Cruel Age Has Deflected Me.

Your Voice Is Wild And Simple. You Are Untranslatable Into Any One Tongue.

Let Whoever Wants To, Relax In The South, And Bask In The Garden Of Paradise. Here Is The Essence Of North—and It's Autumn I've Chosen As This Year's Friend.

Who Will Grieve For This Woman? Does She Not Seem Too Insignificant For Our Concern? Yet In My Heart I Never Will Deny Her, Who Suffered Death Because She Chose To Turn.

You Thought I Was That Type: That You Could Forget Me, And That I'd Plead And Weep And Throw Myself Under The Hooves Of A Bay Mare, Or That I'd Ask The Sorcerers For Some Magic Potion Made From Roots And Send You A Terrible Gift: My Precious Perfumed Handkerchief. Damn You! I Will Not Grant Your Cursed Soul Vicarious Tears Or A Single Glance. And I Swear To You By The Garden Of The Angels, I Swear By The Miracle-working Ikon, And By The Fire And Smoke Of Our Nights: I Will Never Come Back To You.

We Learned Not To Meet Anymore, We Don't Raise Our Eyes To One Another, But We Ourselves Won't Guarantee What Could Happen To Us In An Hour.