Who would have thought that a disease of the ordinary world
could touch you, an exiled immortal!
You love writing poetry, but don't care for your health;
so immersed in books, it has harmed your constitution.
Leaning against a tree, you must be whistling to yourself;
who is there to sit and talk to?
I wish I could come to you on a pair of wings:
we'd shout wildly, and get drunk for ten weeks!