Evaïd.If I tell you that I’m dying,
You will kiss me, softly sighing—
Kiss the poor one who is dying,
Dying, dying, dying, dying.
Shall I whisper, shall I tell you?
No, the sparkling stars will hear me—
Cold, keen, cruel stars—
They will hear me, hear me, hear me,
Hear me sighing, crying, dying.
O the paining, O the sorrow;