They say I loved
but that's untrue,
matters of state
bound me;
passion's proxy
saw me through
all the terrors laid
to trap;
still music and verses
made me immortal.

Wed to a hunchback
should I have consented
to his desires,
or rather allowed
romance's fires;
the turning of a page,
a hand's touch;
Dante knew my age
understood the ardour
the young crave.

Now they say
our fiery end is symbol;
one single kiss
not much more,
and for this
you place me here,
whirled among the base;
hardly an adulteress
just victim, murdered,
by love's decree.

How cruel of him
who lusted also
yet turned her mystic
to avoid failure
of his Catholic road map
of the hereafter.
Own up! Both undone
by love and nature
now linked so close
we'll burn together.