With its whip, the wind
Breaks the lake's mirror.
In me, the impact
Was more violent
Because the wind, as it passed
Was whispering your name...
After whispering it, it left me.
It ran so very fast,
That it didn't even know how to destroy
My sorrows, in which I am
So very steadfast!
But, with its passagepassage
It cut, on the glass
Of the lake, my slave's
Image.
Oh liquid glass
Of my eyes, without you
I asked for a windstorm
In vain!
So that the mirror that puts me in mourning
Could be broken,
And it could leave me with a dry face.
In me, the wind
Was much more violent...