I burn, I rage, yet rush like a moth still, By my own fault—knowing well, yet courting kill.
Beautiful one, no…this is not your sin! When the river swells on full moon nights within, And waves grow drunk with light, Does the moon face blame for their delight?
My heart weaves countless nets of yearning, Sitting in solitude, forever turning.
There, far away, sits some lone magician, Raising on his flute ah, what enchanted vision; Unable to fathom this, Man errs, and seeks…to hide in woman's bliss!
What fault is his, whose heart trembles with hunger? That spell-woven melody makes only the hungry linger! The spring that's held back— Trying to rush singing, pleads to the heart it lacks.
The breast that burns with fire, and unsated desire, Will surely be…given the chance…lost in rapture's choir. Is opportunity not to blame? Why cast on woman alone this shame!
How to quench the mind's flame—in which river's flow? This question is eternal, yet who the answer can show!
All those dry moral tales— When have they ever quenched thirst that never fails?
Listen, woman! My thirst too runs deep; Is there truly fault in the strong who weep? I did not make this yearning mine; What man by nature's rule doesn't pine?
I often think it so— That human hatred of human is futile woe!
I carry the moth's vow—as a man, this is my gift; Woman, you who are forever flame's swift drift!
Such is God's game—with all of humankind; Forcing blame on others, time we waste in idle grind.
Who comes rushing near, Seeing them beforehand clear, Be you boy, be you dear— Drive them off with spear; If you cannot, then disappear.