Sonnelle 1
Sonnelle 1
Love, that juvenile, betrays our conscience
Not knowing conscience born of love
The subtle deceiver urges us through the abyss
Memories of past faults
And in betrayal, whatever form
Avoids the body’s treasons
Our minds, asleep, hope for fonder dreams
Our souls, forgotten in petty triumphs
Still themselves to measured reason
Such triumphs, now long forgotten
Point to their iconic prize: pride
While by it, conscience stands aside
Contentment prodding us along
Forgetting details of affairs
Not wanting for clearer conscience
Yet holding to the call:
The love for which one will rise and fall
|