Enclose from all living-things,
How can you open fame of flag?
All that gives, are lost in life’s slave,
No fame, no slander you bring from me.
Pshaw, you rouse from all happiness,
In the midst of a throng-fair what I get.
From mountain to hillock I run I run,
Fall on the knee, I cry to free the flaws.
The deadness of feelings arose on me,
In my whole life leads a bond-man,
Where you create a torment-soul for me,
Have no paths, no talks my heart is torpid.
You give me a chapel to take my swear,
And I prepare my soul stroll to heaven,
Singing of hymns, “God you are the Creator”,
My free-soul moves where no sins have.