1. When I opened my book, starting with my hand
I have nothing left for your hoped for face but tears

2. I wish that I and this house had moved on
So I could come to you, narrating with my head my pen

3. So when my walking did not narrate it to my sight
My longing narrated it with a tear from it harmonized

4. If only these pens became articulate
They would testify for me concerning that which they witnessed of my tears

5. And how could I forget your favors, while not one
Remains with me, nor what you have accorded of old