WOUNDS OF LOVE

This light, this devouring fire.
This landscape around me, grey forever.
This pain on account of a single idea.
This anguish of sky, of the world, the hour.

This weeping of blood adorning
A lyre now stilled, torch of longing.
This weight of the sea's endless pounding.
This scorpion which makes my heart its dwelling.

They are love's wreaths, a sick man's bed,
Where I, sleepless, dream of your presence
Amongst the ruins of a heart half dead.

And though I seek the heights of prudence,
You offer me only the valley ahead,
And hemlock and longing for bitter experience.