All life long crying without avail, As the water all night long is crying to me.

Late, by myself, in the boat of myself,
no light and no land anywhere,
cloudcover thick. I try to stay
just above the surface, yet I'm already under
and living within the ocean.

Pero yo ire,
aunque un sol de alacranes me coma la sien.

أنا القويُّ، وموتي لا أُكرّرهُ
إلا مجازاً، كأن الموت تسليتي

أُحبّ سيرة أجدادي، وأسأمها
لكي أطير خفيفاً فوق هاويتي

حُرَاً كما يشتهيني الضوء، من صفتي
خُلقتُ حرّاً، ومن ذاتي ومن لغتي

كان الوراءُ أمامي واقفاً، وأنا
أمشي أمامي على إيقاعِ أُغنيتي

أقول: لستُ أنا منْ غابَ وليس هُنا
هناك. إن سمائي كُلّها جهتي

أمشي وأعلمُ أن الريح سيّدتي
وأنّني سيّدٌ في حضن سيدتي

وكُلُّ ما يتمنّى المرء يُدركُهُ
إذا أراد وإني ربُّ أُمنيتي

Steep are the seas and savaging and cold
In broken waters terrible to try;
And vast against the winter night the wold,
And harbourless for any sail to lie.
But you shall lead me to the lights, and I
Shall hymn you in a harbour story told.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.

أنا لا اظفر بالراحة .

أنا ظامئ إلى الأشياء البعيدة المنال .

إن روحي تهفو ، تواقةً ، إلى لمس طرف المدى

المظلم

Of most dreadful suffering, I am the cause.

Sometimes I see me dead in the rain.

I am a shipwrecked man who fears every sea.

Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.

I am a star in the firmament
that observe the world, despises the world
and consumed in its heat.

I am the sea by night in a storm
the sea shouting that accumulates new sins
and to the ancient makes recompense.

I am exiled from your world
of pride polite, by pride defrauded,
I am the king without crown.

I am the passion without words
without stones of the hearth, without weapons in the war,
is my same force that make me sick

Donc, il faudra que je meure et flotte comme écume sur la mer et n'entende jamais plus la musique des vagues, ne voit plus les fleurs ravissantes et le rouge soleil. Ne puis-je rien faire pour gagner une vie éternelle?

Me miserable! Which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep,
Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.

I fell asleep in a river, I woke in a river,
of my mysterious
failure to die I can tell you
nothing, neither
who saved me nor for what cause —