How heavily do I travel on my journey
When what I am looking for (the end of my weary travels),
Will only permit my ease and repose to say:
"I measure the miles I've travelled by how far I am from my friend."
The beast that carries me, tired with my sorrow,
Plods slowly from bearing that weight in me,
As if by some instinct, the wretched creature knew
His rider did not love speed, since it makes me further from you.
This bloody spur can't provoke him to ride more quickly
That I sometimes thrust angrily into his hide,
Which he answers sadly with a groan,
More painful to me than spurring is to his side
Because that same groan makes me think this:
My grief lies ahead, and my joy behind.