The Perfidious Love

To live or die – the choice is ours;

The death is counted with hours.

You can’t get all that you may need,

Yet may your life be free of greed,

So that you live a life of joy,

So that you never may regret

That something’s lost – you couldn’t get it,

So that the hours weren’t in vain,

So you could live without the pain

Of feeling rather sharp in soul and heart

That amateurs do label love.

For that’s the origin of troubles

That makes us lose our precious vows,

That lives a life of sightless future,

That sews our grief with frail sutures,

And only pleasure can it see

Without the sorrow in the glee.

It does enjoy its selfish being;

There’s no escape, there’s no fleeing,

There’s only moment of despair

That lures us all into its snare;

You can’t escape its lasting presence

Nor in the house, nor in the pleasance,

For that’s the essence of Love’s being

To torture souls deprived of freeing;

Forever locked in leaden chains

Engulfed by daunting mental strains,

You can’t escape, there’s no to go;

There’s only everlasting feeling

That death’s becoming more appealing

For that’s the path you want to choose,

Neglect all those whom you may lose;

For being here is pure sorrow,

In vain attempts and on the morrow

To free yourself from lasting pain,

But that’s the trap – Love is the bane;

There’s no escape, no place to go.

That is your fate. That is your doom.

There’s nothing left but an empty tomb.