I find no need to write about love
For she rest here upon my bosom
I resign her apostolate and leave it to those who in loneliness find need to prophesy her presence
My miracle has come
Rather than forerun her I spend time building a dwelling with her

The days of wild locust with nothing but animal skin and an unmatching girdle around my waist have long gone like seasons but never to return

The rich are never idle in talk of money,
Its presence shadows their every step
So are the loved
No more do i find need for sonnets or ballads
My life is made of these
And in my wake are singing birds
While at night my moon is always full


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