When withered roses on the vine are doomed
To that which all rewards, sufficed, fulfilled,
Deformed by age and death, their use long tilled,
Returned to Earth as if they never bloomed,
‘Tis my despair, consumed by moral plight,
As I go round in circles with my mind:
Am I a selfish fool to rage this fight
To tear away these mortal ties that bind?
Rejection better fields those I depend,
Protect and push away their battered souls,
Betray the basic human needs; pretend
An independence draws my certain goal!
So, for these reasons stated here above,
I’ve made my choice, and Thus I cannot love.