Why do I lie alone in this ominous night,

The air so cold, chilling my bones up-right,

The chill breezes so vividly, making me shiver with might,

The goosebumps on my skin, the butterflies making me quiver,

And the fire in my heart, doused by my loneliness,

Empty and full of sympathy,

Sympathetic man, that's me.

This lovely, radiant girl who calls herself Justice, is not at all Justice,

For the poet sang her last song, breathed her final breath, falling into nothingness.

The rivers flow like sap, dripping from the bark of a tree, so warm and succulently,

And here I am, laying in the cold room, lonely and empty,

No love to share my song as I dream with sympathy,

Sympathetic man, that's me.

The lustrous girl who stands before me,

The waviness of her hair, the chocolate tone of her skin,

Who looks as if to be my kin

She finally spoke to me, "No, I am not Justice, I am the one who carries out her song, and the poet sends this to you,

"Only because she misses you dearly."

And yet I dream, sad and dreary,

Empty with this void, lost with sympathy,

Sympathetic man, that's me.