I weep on this New-Year's-Eve for my worlds that have passed away. I await a certain death to come, shivering in the warmth of the dying day. You call me dense and hate me for my love - I give you this - momentary allusion or two besides - Lovers are invariably dumb, especially when it is Love you talk about.
I build a lone colonnade in November and line it with bright roses from February. Thereafter - and still later - ruin ovetakes it fast in the molten shade of the vatavriksha that is so virile.
I call for the end of disastrous headlong rushings into matters of the heart - but who can overcome these many mysterious workings of the Lord of Love - I ask the Lords and the Ladies of the blessed Capitol but there is no answer.....
(You can call it a poem - or just a musing - but for me it is an image - one that has built itself suddenly...into the very structure of my being. Et tu....???)
