Between Death and Longing lay the chasm
that devours every good intention and every
syllable uttered in the throes of night,
every caress, every sigh every whisper of delight

and when comes the wind to sweep it all away
the raven will complain and lift his ragged wings to stir the dust and raise the ashes and

disturb the brittle leaves.

Lo, how horribly fleeting is the joy of Love
and how merciless is...