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I already know the steps of that path
and know they're leading me nowhere.

Its secrets I know by heart
I already know the stones of the road
and know as well that there, alone,
I'll wind up much worse off.

Oh, what can I do against the enchantment
of this love that I deny so
and avoid so
but which in the meantime
always returns to bewitch
with its same sad old facts,
that in album of photos,
I insist on collecting?

There I go again, like a fool,
seeking the desconsolation
that I tired of knowing.
New sad days,
clear nights,
poems,
letters,
My dear,
that yet again I to write you
to tell you
that it's a sin
that I carry a heart so scarred
by memories of the past
and you know the reason why.

I'm going to collect yet another sonnet,
another portrait in black and white,
to mistreat my heart.

I'm going to collect yet another sonnet,
another portrait in black and white,
to mistreat my heart.