't may be late for me or else too soon,
For so many years 't did not occur
That I bear resemblance to Don Juan,
Looking like a real fickle poet.
What's become of me then? What has happened?
Every day I'm at another's feet,
Daily, I refuse to spare myself and
Still defy the venom of deceit.
Never did I want my heart to hover
In the feeling, delicate and simple.
What do I seek in those women's eyes then,
Thoughtless, full of idleness and conceit?
Hold me down, control me, my disdain,
You have always noted me till now.
There is, in my heart, a chilly flame
And of lilacs bluish rustling sound,
In the heart, a sunset's hue of lemon,
But the same is heard like through a gloom:
For the rein of feeling, there's a payment,
Take you up the gauntlet then, Don Juan!
Whereas taking up the gauntlet calmly,
For my future, still the same I see --
To mistake the snows for blue May flowering,
To mistake for love a sensual thrill.
This is what's with me, this is what's happened,
Hence I'm always at so many feet,
And, in order to be lifelong happy,
I defy the venom of deceit.
