Why are you so cold, so bitter and distant?
Your beauty radiates as intensely as sunlight
Of mornings and of hope. Why so distraught,
So unaffected then? Do godesses suffer plight?

Do words and sensations mean nothing to you?
Too meager, too mortal, too insatiable for you?
Is silence the better suitor then, and I a wretched sod?
My verses flee in vain, they do not even requite a nod.

Is it sorrow, or is it spite that makes you be this way?
I find myself bemused to wonder how these hindrances sway
Your mood, your deeds and all that you bless and curse.
So trivial and unthinking, your virtues increasingly become worse.