I fear I will not hear that voice again, even in harsh
refrain, a silence so astounding it deafens me, this plant I once saw as a rose
(with all this thorns), now seems a weed I dare not pluck, having no other to
take its place; even if its scent is sour rather than sweet, I know thee are
still fair, most of all in my thoughts, and so the fault need be with me, a
faulty gender who has turned perfection into something spoiled, how much
service I would render thee if I could, if then would let me, to rejoin what
once was, happiness, though I know this is not possible and so what joy I take
from thee is all in my mind and dreams, what satisfaction I must generation for
myself, even tough it is you that will always inspire it. I know a warm heart
beats within thee, inside thy breast, only it does not beat for me, and that
from thee I might generation a million unspoiled pleasures, should chance allows
it while in reality I am out in the more desolate, desperate and cold, as if in
a winter rain that withers all it touches rather than makes things grow.
No comments:
Post a Comment