¿Dónde estás, prenda querida?

Where are you, dear love,
owner of my thoughts?
Where are you, that you don't hear
my sighs and laments?

I ask the sky why
fate treats me so badly
that without being at fault,
a feeling kills me.

A feeling kills me
from the moment I remember.
It's madness, it's confusing,
but why do I remember?

For all the company,
green olive bud,
where could there be greater sorrow
than an unjustified scorn?