I love you, dearest. Don't condone me for my love.
Like an astray bird, I am entrapped.
When my heart was perturbed, it mislaid its veil and was exposed. Cloak it with empathy, dearest, and don't condone it for my love.

If you cannot love me, dearest, don't condone me my pain.
Do not look disdainfully at me from far.
I will withdraw and settle in my darkened corner.
With these twain hands I will cloak my exposed disgrace.
Turn your face from me, dearest, but don't condone me my pain.

If you love me, dearest, don't condone me my gaiety.
When my heart is carried away in the flow of delight, do not smile at my precarious wantonness.
When I sit on my royal seat and dominate you with my unreasonableness of love,
when like a goddess I bestow you my grace, bear with my ego, dearest, and don't condone me my elation.