I do not want luck or glory,
I just want my cry to pour,
to have in my mind the raw memory,
of my cruel suffering.
As a sorrowful and weeping specter,
I only want to roam alone,
and in my chest,
which is never burning,
I just want your image to wear.
I do not want the bright sun,
its splendid rays look,
but, I want a dark place,
I could live with you.
If an empire was made out of the world,
that contained untold treasures,
if this empire was placed at my feet,
I'll change it to see you for a moment.
If angels were to whom temples and altars,
in my cult they may rise,
with torments I would change them,
for being a moment at your feet.