Do you feel burnt by love? You thought it is a puppet?
Rather a game with moods alike in childhood,
When asking you of salamander temper, vivid,
Its mystic flame turns into ashes the livelihood.
Love never linger inside too much: master of flesh, of pleasure,
Its fervent spirit – misfortune – will waste your inner treasure;
It’s looking for twin soul inside us... if you lure it with clay,
You’ll remain a poor urn of slagging pain into this play...
Earnest desire is tempting you to put on happiness,
Same as you wear, at parties, brocaded dress.
But it must be faced out with fright, alike a death;
For holding inside, happiness will break your structure,

Changing into abyss your innermost breath,
It makes you feel this world a simple juncture...

Saturday, 1955 February