My beloved will fairly mourn for my ill fortune,
My comates will settle up my affairs and debts,
All the wants I had ’mongst others will be portioned,
And, perhaps, my foes will toast my luck and health.
I can get no longer sheets and pens to write with,
My guitar is broken, it’s out of tune.
I cannot go leftward, I cannot go rightward,
I don’t see the sun now, and don’t see the moon.
I cannot go outside—I’ve been disempowered,
I go from the door and to the wall,
I cannot go upward, I cannot go downward,
I see but a sliver of sky, sometimes dreams—that’s all.
Dreams about how, someday, I’ll regain my freedom,
How again will my guitar sound clear.
Whom shall I be met by, how shall I be greeted,
And what kind of singing shall I get to hear?