She loves me, not a sound did pound her chest,
Of course, her flesh of coarse, would stay afar.
Her youthful sheathe, her truth beneath abreast.
If not from heart, but art, love 'tis bizarre.
By flesh, I do disdain, to stain from blood,
As such, of which, of witch may I begot.
My lifeless ruse, refuse her charm by flood,
By harm, my love an endless pain, 'tis not.
I ask of stone in flesh, to render love,
Thy rubble falls, till love 'tis but debris.
I do beseech, that all of which above,
That love may breathe, alas, to which degree.
She loves me not, a maid astrayed from bloom,
A renegade, knows not but love from doom.