Your disgrace has had thee mortal, my sire;
You rushed me mindlessly, to my desire,
Only to disengage me in a warned hurry,
On a wild night, in the kiss of unasked beauty.

Your **** has failed thee alone, my prince;
You have made yourself endure your lost vitality,
And have eliminated my love ever since,
Your love is coarse, your heart is not chilly.

I tell thee, just give ‘em more and more;
For papers and pens do not like us anymore,
And so our being shall mean none else to one,
My love has left me tense all on my own.

I tell thee, just give ‘em all your pulse;
Empty my brown heart from its hard curses,
You fade one night, and glow anew and come again,
You were here at once, but dispersed and loved in vain.

I tell thee, just unleash all your freedom;
Make the crowd love thee t’is time, at random,
For our passages have love meaning no more,
Nor the remembrance that once lived short.

Shall I attempt t’is time, to seize and bind ye?
What is the value of an illusion, when all is masked,
When ‘tis but the savage product of a dream,
When all of mine is renewed pain, and limbs.

Shall I bring my unknown poetry to thee?
Yearning for a bliss so damp and unloved,
But those beside, whose songs bear filthy flattery,
Sought naked by thee, in adultery through the night and day.

Shall I bring my poems to who shan’t read,
Shall I be seen as they console, as they converse.
Shall I be greedy at breast, while easy at heart
Shall I be present in my toil, in my worried verse.

Shall I be a verse to thee myself, and read me,
Shall I be a sacrifice to all glory and again.
Shall I make my whole age belong to you,
Shall I undo my fate, and wish all was true.

Shall I fight at sunset, and come back at dawn,
Shall I see what I have written and done,
Shall I compare us to the morning dew,
I have found no love so fond as you.

But who says you are a child and immortal still,
You are what the long crowd is wanting,
The vanity of what they are doing,
The yule and beer the bold blood feels.

Who says you have been a fond one at all,
Who whispers such thoughts behind the hall,
That they have seen but too rapidly,
With a pride too big, to truly hear and see.

And who says you have been a lover to me,
You have turned against your own immortality,
And your soul, then, shall not retreat to me,
You have left the heavenly sight you could not see.

And who says my poems are all over you,
For you are not a prey to any wondrous sight,
Not a bright poem for a quality night,
Not a sterling soul for the Northern Light.

And who says my poems are not ancient,
For those who hear not through the yelping rain,
For those who lay asleep on every shiny day,
For those with less to writ than to say.

And who says my poems are tolerant,
Who says they shall be nice to such impediments,
Who says they are to writ in thy honour,
Who says they shall forgive, and forget like before.

And who says my poems are those of thine,
Who says you are entwined in my mind,
Who claims you have my artistic heart,
Who writs I’ll die in my narcissistic art.

And who says my poems are for all those,
With clumsy ears and a ruddy face and nose,
Whose intelligence gives birth to no merit,
Whose defense is void of pure delight and wit.

And who says my words are for all these,
Who twitches not at the intuition of my prose,
Who wonder at the sublime virtue of kisses,
Whose pain is born from the lavender and rose.

And who says my subtle words is for such beings,
Who hide at sunset and stretch at the sound of dawn,
Who says mortals are the most stellar of kings,
Who says the possessive rainbow shan’t be gone.

And who loves with the inherent new feelings,
Who goes to sleep by the wrath of art,
Who sees not through his heart’s beating,
Who shall have their ripe hopes torn apart.

And who pains from their selfish illusions,
Who lies to their merit and imagination,
Who molests the notion of salvation,
Who tells deceit and upholds deception.

And who silences his laden soul beneath his lust,
Who scratches it with a chain of sins,
Who curses but the fond forages of love,
Whose guise shall impede his own veins.

And who loves with hate, that hate causes pain,
Who writhes in the joy and scarce delight of friends,
Who hinders reliefs, who exalts tears;
Who weeps evenly, who alters love for fears.