Upon my bed I lay, without repose.
From whence my weary soul has come, distraught,
is much too daunting. ‘gainst me such my prose
has pled, “Release, I beg thee! Struggles fought
in God’s eternity, our passions’ throes,
remain without resolve. I ask why, caught
‘twixt love and lost, thou press thyself so. Ought
one cherish heart’s gift, passion orange rose?”
To this misguided art thus I replied:
“If our sad plight reduced to such, then we
should not distress ourselves. But this is quite
disparate. I discovered, shocked, her sight,
her smell, her music, forgotten to thee.
This shame revealed, I now ask: has it died?”