My scarlet heart, color of wine
It rips the shroud of my calm chest
And it goes fleeing goes, goes walking
Lost in the mists of way
My heart, the mystic prophet,
The paladin's daring of misfortune,
Who dreams of being a saint and poet,
Goes find the Palace of Happiness ...

My heart certainly will not get there ...
Does not know the way or rail,
Not enough memory of this uncertain place ...

I shall make some unrealistic dreams ...
As this mother who saw her son depart
Like this son who never came back!