Love is cruel to those who are left
They have their strength,they have their health
But their grief is like a knife
That cut the husband from the wife.
Fortune favours those who die
For all alone they will not lie.
Every object, every place
Reminds us of the lost embrose.
Grief is anxious,insecure
We may have gold love’s not assured
Looking into unknown fields
May these rhythms some mercy yield
How my heart sings 