Now, my bride will clearly weep for me sincerely,
And my friends will settle all my debts at last,
Others men will gather to sing my songs completely,
And, perhaps, my enemies may even raise a glass.
They no longer grant me here books that I desire,
One of my guitar strings has become undone.
Here, I can’t get lower and I can’t get higher,
I can’t have the moon, and I can’t have the sun.
I do not have freedom – stripped of rights outright,
To the door or to the wall - no matter how I rage,
Here, I can’t turn left and I can’t turn right,
I can only have my dreams, and the skyline's edge.
Dreams of how I’ll leave from this prison hastily,
With my old guitar in hand, I’ll walk out free.
Who will come to greet me, who will then embrace me,
And what wondrous songs will they sing to me?
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