He flings me hard onto the dry rocky surface
and I allow death to capture me in its embrace.
The colossal beast —with impenetrable armour—
standing over me like an immense tower.
...
They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love's roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen
Do you think that I do not know?
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