The day is dying, the shadows fleeing,
10 the breeze no longer stirs in the garden.
Fear of death is settling in me:
What hope could there be for the ass I’ve been?
For desire, now, I begin this lament,
as my drum has long since ceased to sound—
transgression, friends, has kept me from favor:
my errors are legion, my sins renowned.
5 And so my lute has turned to mourning,
its flute to weeping, and sorrow’s wail—
for love’s pleasure came to nothing,
as passion faded, then finally failed.
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