Dear love (though not so dear) , have pity on me:
Do not taunt me thus, leave me be. I am
Broken and spent, like an old beggar bent
With years of living but on sufferance.
Broken is my heart from your soul-splitting glance.
Spent memory of our time from hell is sent,
Tormenting me. Your kind words have me damned,
Dream-deformed, tainted: my mind will not be free.
By this you have set your enchanting curse,
And still it is not enough to satisfy.
What would to an eye for off-promise thirst,
And a heart with a mouthful of alibi?
False promise. False hope. False everything.
Yet not all false. Do not taunt me thus, dear thing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Fellow poet, what a good poem, very enlightening. Thanks