Recently you descried that The hands of mine were Full of crimson scars, Like the beads of a rosary. ”What are these wounds On your palm?” you asked. ”Were they caused by The elisabethian roses of your garden?” I said nothing, just (but) smiled blushingly, But then later, while you fell asleep, I leaned closely and whispered My secret in your ears: „In fact, all of these are Stigmata of our love. But possessing them makes me happy; I wear them proudly.”