Do not ask of me, my love, that love I once had for you. There was a time when life was bright, and young and blooming, and your sorrow was much more than any other pain. Your beauty gave the Spring everlasting youth; your eyes, yes your eyes were everything, all else was vain. While you were with me, I thought, the world was mine. Though now I know that it was an illusion that is the way I imagined it to be; for there are other sorrows in the world than love, and other pleasures, too. Do not ask of me, my love, that love I once had for you! Woven in silk and satin and brocade, those dark and brutal curses of countless centuries: bodies bathes in blood, smeared with dust, sold from market-place to market-place, bodies risen from the cauldron of diseases pus dripping from their festering sores - my eyes must also turn to these. You are beautiful still, my love but I am helpless too; for there are other sorrows in the world than love, and other pleasures too. Do not ask of me, my love, that love I once had for you! -sunny-