*This is another one of my translations, this time it's from Aleksander Pushkin.
Donít ask me why alone in dismal thought
In times of mirth, Iím often filled with strife,
How come my weary stare is so distraught,
How come I donít enjoy the dream of life;
Donít ask me why my soul has slowly perished
And ceased to love the love that pleased me then
No longer can I call someone ďmy cherishedĒ--
Who once has loved will never love again;
Who once felt bliss will never feel its essence,
A momentís happiness is all that we receive:
From youth, prosperity and joyful pleasance
Weíre left with only apathy and grief...