About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you

I want to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees.

Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.

Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?

Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?

I love you only because it's you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.