Sweet Love, Your Cheek Is Pale
Sweet love, your cheek is pallid and your crest
Is laid with spleens of winter’s iron rage.
Your lip is faint, and your heart now does rest
Within the bowelled dungeons of sore age.
Your kiss, once but a touch of summer’s blood
Is now a stab of winter’s dreary gripe,
And your eyes now are with miasmas fraught.
Your soul presents no flower or fruit, ripe.
The visions of your dream have been expelled
By wanton winds that o’er the canyons sweep
And love that you within your gaze beheld
Has sunk within eternal, frosted sleep.
That isn’t so: when summer’s ripening
Sweet blossoms on your pallid face, then spring.
© 2013 Gleb Zavlanov
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