Sorrow, it is not true that I know you;

you are the nostalgia for a good life,

and the aloneness of the soul in shadow,

the sailing ship without wreck and without guide.

Like an abandoned dog who cannot find

a smell or a track and roams 

along the roads, with no road, like

the child who in a night of the fair

gets lost among the crowd, 

and the air is dusty, and the candles

fluttering,--astounded, his heart

weighed down by music and by pain:

that's how I am, drunk. sad by nature,

a mad and lunar guitarist, a poet,

and an ordinary man lost in dreams,

searching constantly for God among the mists.

Commentary

Antonio Machado