Book: Don Juan

I hated and loved
Now only know how to scoff.

The fate of men love is not the main thing. For women, love and life are one.

We are all slaves, for that matter, -
Slaves of the passions, whims, pleasures.
With time warmth
And kindness to us are dying, unfortunately.
The art of living, since to tell the truth,
In fact, that our neighbors do not suffer.

Love the passion and stifles and oppresses
Family relationships procedure:
Young lover happy in bloom,
And the young husband is already looking rather downcast.
No one in the great poetry does not sing
Marital happiness: be Laura
Poinciana with Petrarch - God
To write sonnets if he could not!

As the sun set. Yellow moon
Ascended into heaven - the old witch;
She looks modest and cold,
But even the twenty-first of June
Three hours will do it
Such mischief in another full moon
What a day not to do:
She has this devilish zeal!

No one openly dares to act;
We are our thoughts constrained run.
As all of them hypocrites
We accept fiction on faith.

She sighed, flushed, embarrassed,
Whispered: "No way!" and... agreed!

Impermanence I do not recognize,
Nasty, nasty, nasty me life,
Changing forever his essence,
As mercury from changes in temperature.

I would love you if you were hot, if you were cold but you are lukewarm...

Simple failure - one moment in pain!

Sadly, if the souls are numb
Desire, buried forever,
Faking all the feelings owns,
And puts on a mask people.