by Nikola Vaptsarov

Now the quiet full of fear
lowers in our little shack.
Over is the fight, my dear,
but you don't come back.

And I wept, and did implore;
why would you not hear?
So you went. Within our door
close it grew and drear.

All I heard was the alarm
of my heart that beat in pain,
and softly I put out my arm
hoping to find you there again.

I am jealous, Fernandez,
there's a word I hate -
"freedom", - for it did obsess
all your thoughts of late.

Maybe you are right, who knows?
Maybe you are right, my dear,
but the pain still tears and gnaws
and I fear, I fear

that dreadful emptiness that hangs
in our room and seems to grow.
There, I hear, the front-gate bangs. -
But you won't come back, I know.