Oh, Esmeralda, perverse art thou in,
The capturing of pious men of God!
Unclean sentiments rise so high within,
That wretched soul of mine, so deep and flawed.
Thou sees the disgrace, pain and agony,
Rapaciously consume this poor priest's mind.
That sight, for you, was neither tragedy,
Nor bliss, oh, girl, thou art to pain just blind!
Dare I to dream thou may one day love me,
As I love thee with burning flame and bliss?
Thou may perhaps in thy arms caress me,
That day would be the brightest one, that kiss.
Oh, dream in vain, poor priest, of highest joy,
And crumble in the pain, alas, as Troy.