A terrible thing is happening -- my love
is dying again, my love who has died already:
died and been mourned. And music continues,
music of separation: the trees
become instruments.
How cruel the earth, the willows shimmering,
the birches bending and sighing.
How cruel, how profoundly tender.
My love is dying; my love
not only a person, but an idea, a life.
What will I live for?
Where will I find him again
if not in grief, dark wood
from which the lute is made.
Once is enough. Once is enough
to say goodbye on earth.
And to grieve, that too, of course.
Once is enough to say goodbye forever.
The willows shimmer by the stone fountain,
paths of flowers abutting.
Once is enough: why is he living again?
And so briefly, and only in dream.
My love is dying; parting has started again.
And through the veils of the willows
sunlight rising and glowing,
not the light we knew.
And the birds singing again, even the mourning dove.
Ah, I have sung this song. By the stone fountain
the willows are singing again
with unspeakable tenderness, trailing their leaves
in the radiant water.
Clearly they know, they know. He is dying again,
and the world also. Dying the rest of my life,
so I believe.