LOVE REMAINS a secret even when spoken,
for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.

HE IS TALL and lean, withered to the bone with long repeated fever, like a dead tree unable to draw a single drop of sap from anywhere.
        In despairing patience, his mother carries him like a child into the sun, where he sits by the roadside in the shortening shadows of each forenoon.
        The world passes by-a woman to fetch water, a herd-boy with cattle to pasture, a laden cart to the distant market-and the mother hopes that some least stir of life may touch the awful torpor of her dying son.

I NEGLECTED to appraise your worth
being blindly sure of my possession.
The days followed each other and the nights
carrying your offerings to my feet.
I looked at them through the corner of my eyes
as they were being sent to my storehouse.
April's honeysuckles added their scent to your gifts,
the full moon of the autumn night
touched them with its glimmer.
Often you poured the flood of your dark tresses upon my lap
and your eyes swam with tears while you said:
My tribute to you, my king, is pitifully meagre;
I have failed to give you more, not having any more to give.
The days follow each other and the nights
but you are no longer here today.
I come to open at last my storehouse,
and take up the chain of the jewels,
that came from your hands on my neck.
My pride that remained indifferent
kisses the dust where you left your footprints.
Today I gain you truly
for with my sorrow I have paid the price of your love.