Why do the beasts the voice of man
While lying on the field of sigh despise
And 's blood thickening, wilder than
The axe’s fury on the unmarried’s nape?
By Jove, my flames don’t burn, o maid!
And for thy love I long – like boiling grape
Fuming, in its hot pot of marmalade:
This solemn fragrance I’ve found and lost
Between two lives of scattered Death
Whom I, upon my honor, now accost
With on my disloyal lips this final mirth
For we’ll meet again, outside the Limbo’s gates
Where our new marriage will defile their new earth
And on the road of torture we’ll join our gaits
To draw from their eternal lives our inverse birth.
Thereby the lone, the tearful rose, aboveA thousand moons that wax and wane,
The son of shared father, confided his love
To the severed head of Anne Boleyn.