Amongst arms, war, fire, rage and fury
which have the arrogant French oppressed,
when the air is at its dirtiest and thickest,
there I feel the fiery ardor of love.
I look at the sky, the trees, the flowers,
and in them I find my pain proclaimed;
and in the coldest and most wicked times
all my fears are born and revived.
Crying I utter: "Oh sweet springtime!
When will it be that I see my hope,
green, give my soul some peace?"
But I fear that my fierce fortune, so much
against my welfare, wants my death to be
amongst arms, war, fire, rage and fury.
translated by José Wan García