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The Great Dole, discriminator of transgression,
may gird himself with a tail oft downward.
We shall be ready, not impeded, for fate ordains!
Not to ask further questions, lest the dolesome wind mute all.

The infernal hurricane prepares to combat my beloved tempest.
That violent seizure of someone's property
shall now whirl us around, molest my plants and the laments.
Borne the shadows to remove the leaden stress.

After that I had listened to my tutors,
approaching the malignant air is only what I hear.
Waiteth and bowed my face with more desire,
dubious desire, since there is no greater sorrow.

Alone we are and without mindful fear.
For how many uttered spirits can I pity anymore anyhow?
I shall swoon away as if I had been tormented.
Barking hopelessly with my gullet submerged.

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