Never can a prisoner tell his mind,
Openly, without sadness,
But, vehemently, he can write a song,
I have many friends, but poor are the gifts,
Shame on them, if to gather my ransom,
I am here for two winters.
They know well, my men and barons,
English, Normans, Poitevins and Gascons,
That I have no companion, no matter how poor,
That I would leave in prison without acting,
I am not criticising,
But I am still prisoner.
Never can a prisoner tell his mind,
Openly, without sadness,
But, vehemently, he can write a song,
I have many friends, but poor are the gifts.