Eros harrows my heart: wild gales sweeping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.

May I write words more naked than flesh, stronger than bone, more resilient than sinew, sensitive than nerve.

I would not think to touch the sky with two arms

I do not know what to do, my mind's in two.

All the while, believe me, I prayed our night would last twice as long.

Death is an ill; 'tis thus the Gods decide: / For had death been a boon, the Gods had died.

Although only breath, words which I command are immortal.