For too long a lifetime, O cunning and vexatious Cupid, have you refrained from entering into my presence with love's dream granted.
My offerings of tears and flowers of the field upon your altar
have in no wise moved your heart nor hastened winged travel on my sorrowing behalf.
You are acquainted with the desire of eyes that pine toward this
elusive mating; you are e'er aware my burning blood courses madly through veins scarce
Able to contain such fire . . . When, if ever, will my dream of love become
entwined with the being I call Myself? I am earth, my blood is fire . . . This raging, roiling love is
Pent-up waters behind a crumbling dam of dust and bone. Where, Lover, are you?