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I signed my sentence by my own hand,
And I am now mounting the scaffold.
Perhaps back then, when our world was young
And there were no churches and cathedrals,
Perhaps back then the people were too pure
To know this damned sin I'm now fighting.

I'm willingly admitting: I was wrong.
But do you care? I am indeed a sinner,
A mere human; not the Lord himself
And not an angel, not a pure soul -
Oh no; I am a mockery of those.
And I admit: I wanted it. I wanted

And got it. Did I win? I did indeed.
And I condemned myself by this achievement,
And I will burn. It's my auto-da-fé.
My head and heart are full of Latin phrases,
But none of them will reach my torpid tongue.
Did someone say that nihil semper floret?

I know this taste of Latin on my lips —
So sugary it is, and yet so bitter!
It causes pain, it will not let me speak.
But no one is to blame for our torture —
Not you, not me; apart from God himself.
Just Him. But that's enough for maledictions,

And sufferings, and pain etcétéra.
No one can see the fire in which I'm burning.
Ay me! Ay me! I'm burning from within,
From dawn to dawn I'm whispering my prayers —
They never help me. I can only laugh.
I know that my last bow will be the lowest.

All come from dust and will return to dust.
I cannot bring you back, my love, but trust me,
Your execution won't be yours alone —
I'll follow you, I'll share your pain and sorrow.
...and here I am, departing from this world,
Cheek pressed against its cold cobblestones.