Poetry Collection

Poem 19

Vileness and crime,

I give you my eyes,

What do you prefer?

Can you unleash this soul of mine?

So much fire they have given,

Not your care,

More dust in love,

Nor play where you do not lose,

Well, purely in love,

For if the soul touches its gall,

Nor the flower of a single garden,

Those whom I have loved die

And today he cries that yesterday he laughed,

That all affectation is bad.