Translation:

I was born like a bird without its wings, condemned to an abysm that even the strongest of beings would not withstand. When I take my last breath, who’s to bring a flower to my tomb? Am I to die as I live, devoid of joy and love? Who — devoured by sorrow — will shed tears on my burial plot? I’m not loved while I’m alive, so who’s to love me when I die?

I don’t ask for much. In fact, I beg for anything but a solemn funeral. Avoid the wailing and the black garments. Furthermore, avoid sculpting me a marble tombstone bearing an epitaph that overestimates my doings in life.

Instead, I desire a single tear and a subtle sigh. A tear conceived in the chest and shed by the eyes of a friend who’s truly sincere. A sigh subtly exhaled by the one woman who’ll be genuinely afflicted over my death. Aside from that, I simply want a small burial plot, a humble cross, and a brief remembrance.

Never before held back neither by chains nor tears, today I seek peace and quiet. Once a hummingbird that had at its disposal the most beautiful of flowers, I now crave nothing but your eyes, your arms, and your lovingness. Forgive me for having taken too long to come to my senses. Forgive this wanderer who’s finally ready to settle down and offer you his heart. Let’s love one another with the devotion that I failed to make mutual in the past.

And when I die, I want neither somberness nor wails of sorrow. I want nothing but tranquility. If someone’s to be afflicted by my death, let it be you, the one woman I truly loved. If you still remember me by then, shed a tear on my death plot, and follow it with a prayer, but as you leave the cemetery, in God’s name, I plead that you forget I ever existed.