I pen my final letter on this page—

Pure white, unstained—a cruel irony;

A fond goodbye concealing black-inked rage

To mark your veiled, venomed tyranny.

In expiating verse I must confess,

That hearts bewitched by ardor oft attain

A fever of the soul that cannot rest

Until all hope’s desire lies burned in flame.

The deed is done—that pyre now ashes cold

As in remorse, we scan the scorched earth there;

Of love or lust—this tale forever told…

Yet who shall judge what naked souls lay bare?

They will forgive us, those who’ve truly loved—

The doubtful yet these ardent lines may move.