I want to hate the hope that ails you,
A bittersweet wound in an unforgiving sky.
I want to sing the songs of countries in valley folds,
With bloodstained lips from love-lettered lies

Do not tell me of yonder earth,
Of a rich and fruitful bounty.
Do not whisper the songs of stars,
Like a sweet winter’s lullaby.

Do not beguile the bard of brilliancy
In his bitter, balky home.
Do not omit the eminence of a maiden seraph’s name
For love is intangible and peckish, and does but do right by me.

I want to live the life of the oldest sea,
Yielding the earth’s lament like a crashing wave.
I want to hear the sound of a child’s tongue,
Soured with sorrow salts of misery.