The Irate Spectator

I found some quaint Lyric Poetry from twelfth century Europe.. They were usually about unrequited love, I like to call it Medieval Emo.. (har, har)

I die of wounds from blissful blows,
And love’s cruel stings dry out my flesh,
My health is lost, my vigor goes,
And nothing can my soul refresh.
I never knew so sad a plight,
it should not be, it is not right

I’ll never hold her near to me,
My ardent joy she’ll ever spurn,
In her good graces I cannot be,
Nor even hope, but only yearn.
She tells me nothing, false or true,
And neither will she ever do.

-Jaufre Rudel, translated by C. Warren Hollister

I also liked this excerpt from a troubadour’s song:

Alas! I thought I knew so much of love,
And I know so little.
For I can’t help loving a lady
Whom I cannot attain.
She has all my heart
She has me entirely.
She has left me nothing but desire,
And a foolish heart

-Bernard of Ventadour, again translated by Hollister

Just for the hell of it let’s compare the above with the lyrics of Parokya ni Edgar’s "Your Song".

There I was
thought I had everything
figured out
goes to show just how much I know
bout the way life plays out

Chorus:
i take one step away
and I find myself coming back
to you
my one and only
one and only
you..

Coincidence? I think not. It so happens that things like this reach out to you through time… Kinda makes my eyes teary myself…