I know, there's my death. And you
Already does not spite me more,
You'll condescend from clear blue
To end of my sad earthly dole.
But love of yours is dark to me
And strange your passion's declaration.
Can one's heart find the names to be
The strange words' and caresses' mention?
What if you find the looked for words,
And in my now-late affection
At my leave for the other worlds,
I'd pray for novel resurrection?