Number 20

Since the cupbearer turned cold toward me with playful disdain, like a candle at a gathering, fire has fallen into my soul. No desire for the world fits in my heart anymore; there the grief has fallen caravan upon caravan. Apart from the ring of her hair, my heart finds no rest, like a bird that has fallen far from its nest. When that envy of spring rose to wander the garden, the rose, robbed of its worth, fell from the gardener's eye. If they ask you about your weary lover, tell them: I saw him lying helpless in the sickbed of sorrow.