SONNET OF SWEET COMPLAINT

Let me not lose the wondrous delight
of your eyes —like a statue's— nor the tone
that strokes my cheek all through the night
with your breath, a solitary rose.

Being on this shore is my dismay,
a branchless trunk; what worries me
is lacking flower, pulp and clay
to feed the worm of my own misery.

If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my tearful pain,
if I'm the dog and you the master,

don't let me lose what I have gained,
and deck the branches of your river
with leaves of my autumn, estranged.