|In my breast, A wail of grief, without any spark or flash, |
Alone survives, passionless, ineffectual.
A free man is in prison today, without a spear or a sword;
Regret overwhelms me and also my strategy.
My heart is drawn by instinct to chains.
Perhaps my sword was of the same steel.
Once I had a two‑edged sword– It turned into the chains that shackle me now.
How whimsical and indifferent Is the Author of fates.