Where are you now, my sweet, where are you now?
Child of pleasure, fair fugitive from truth;
What have you reaped of sinful seeds there sown,
That field oft ploughed, but bearing little fruit;
Times judgement passed, has it been cruel or kind?
Are you still held a prisoner of your glass,
Numbering there in tears each time worn line,
Curtly executing each pallid tress?
I mourn for you, though not for loss thereof,
I am quite sure that you mourn not for me;
How could I move a heart immured in lust,
Vainglorious soul, forever so to be?
One heart was n’er enough to sate your needs:
Pure love is truth, borne not by words, but deeds.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.