lunes, 24 de julio de 2017


Roses are red,
Snow is white.
They think me dead,
Lost in the night.

Upon the slopes,
I kneel in snow.
The water’s glass
Shows me my foe.

The Feast of Love
Sounds in my halls;
I watch her through
The mirror walls.

Carouse and jaunt
The whole night through.
She knows not love,
The little shrew.

Such passion is
A monstrous fate.
I know too well
All love ‘comes hate.

For on this day
Some years ago,
My love betrayed,
Fell into woe,

And down he fell,
His heart in hand.
The pig now rots,
His soul is damned.

The Feast of Love
Is full of lies.
As apples fall,
So all love dies.

I’ll leave her be,
No need to kill.
Yet I shall have
My vengeance still.

No apple needed,
Or huntsman’s glove;
The slowest poison
Is that of love.

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