VIII
You are a devil gloating on the pain
You suffer and I suffer; you laugh shrill
Over the pangs of those pale fools, the twain
Whom we deceive, whom we shall surely kil
Whispering a word of this. Ah! joy it is
That false to faith is all the honied pressing;
A traitor triumphs in each stolen kiss,
Caligula and Cressida caressing.
You love yourself for stealing me away
From the proud lovely wife; you love me more
That in my arms a prostitute you lay,
And to your troth-plight lover played the whore
When mouth to mouth we clung, and breath for breath
Exchanged the royal accolade of death,
I love you for your cruelty to them;
Y love you for your cruelty to me;
I see their blood glittering a diadem
Upon your dazzling brows; my blood I see
Sucked deep into your body, curling round
Like fire in every artery and vein
Massed in your heart, colossal and profound.
Iam mad for you to brand me with the stain
Of your own vice. Our souls, a murdering crew
Of itching Mullahs, wallow, dervish-drunk.
Love surges at the pang! Our poisonous dew
Of sweat and kisses blinds us. A mad monk
Kissing fanatically the cross that had
Devecured his vitals is not half as mad!
~
‘ys