We are unable to wish,
For the pain to end itself,
Due to how our desires bend
With one another on this frail soil.
We are united in death,
And divided in love.
A pitiful little beauty you once were
To me and the seas.
Waters poured from your eyes,
Like frail rivers of ice.
And I kissed each tear that strayed
From its trail.
I was once in love,
With a woman who resembled my birth.
She had always called to me,
In an effort to elapse such pain.
She said, “Where do you hail from,
Other than a womb of mine?”
Indeed, a mother she was,
To perhaps another child,
An alien one, and not the one who I am.
A beauty, that she is, though of nothing more,
For she is a woman of seeming emptiness,
And I have left the nest for her to see me gone.
Where, in this setting of tragedy
Are you to find grace upon those frail shoulders?
Where, in this funeral of remembrance
Are you to see with one eye only upon the future?
When I love, it is with turmoil.
When I love, it is with disease.
When I despise, I despise with a shaking
To these limbs,
And to my lying tongue.
I had loved a woman who no more finds sadness in herself.
It had been so, like the green of trees,
Or the blue of lakes,
Or even the yellow among every dandelion,
That decorates the meadows.
She sees only the external, and never the one,
Who she found to be a child, and never a husband.