1. I hung it, hanging
On the line, secluded with it

2. It carried the inkpot but no cure
For a lover whose love could be hoped for

3. So the blood of loving hearts
Appears as a dye on its hands

4. What is there for me if I see it
Beyond my gaze upon it?

5. And love makes me mute
That I complain to it of my affliction

6. How often before meeting it
Did I complain to it of my sorrow?