I turn my hateful eyes to my own history.
Dreams, more dreams and more dreams... glory,
More glory...Hate... a fleeing nightingale...
And I looked onto her but could not see
Not a characteristic, not even an outline, nor a footprint
Of that sweet evil that I am dying with.

I turn to look at the stretched road in front of me...
I march as if I were a soldier,
With victorious stride, to all roar;
And still in nothing lies the shadow
Of that sweet evil that I am dying with.

A summit appears in front of me;
Many sought to crown her but could not;
Only I remained on top, smiling,
And there, she yelled, strong and loud
And still I could not even feel the sting
Of that sweet evil I am dying with.

I returned to look onto the most beautiful...... decline...
Thousand brave men forfeited to shame
Yet, I was the victor of that great evil;
I was Glory, proud and vespertine,
Without foreseeing the clandestine march
Of the sweet evil I am dying with.

Forces and Powers situated me
And test by test, cornered my faith
Still, she did not change nor sell it,
And I saw them march with her spite
Happy, and without noticing anything in my chest
Of that sweet evil I am dying with.

Women... for my glory and my fights
In many places many gave themselves to me
And in many places I slept, wanting
And in the morning another love followed,
But nowhere did I detect the dart
Of that sweet evil I am dying with.

Then one day there was a clumsy circumstance,
When we stayed alone
Reading together, without actually reading,
Looking each other in the eye, without malice,
And remained later with only delight and no sign
Of that sweet evil I am dying with.