Their spring meadows
are desolate now. Still, desire
for them lives always
in our heart, never dying.

     These are their ruins.
     These are the tears
     in memory of those
     who melt the soul forever.

I called out, following after
     love-dazed:
You so full with beauty,
     I've nothing!

     I rubbed my face in the dust,
     laid low by the fever of love.
     By the privilege of the right of desire for you
     don't shatter the heart

Of a man drowned in his words,
burned alive
in sorrow.
Nothing can save him now.

     You want a fire?
     Take it easy. This passion
     is incandescent. Touch it.
     It will light your own.