Number 19

The one whose command my head obeys, my heart is the ball he strikes with his mallet. I gave my heart to grief over him, and I would give my life too, if only her lips and teeth were truly hers. Whatever turmoil my heart is in, it is the reflection of that scattered, tumbling hair of hers. When you see Venus and the moon together, know it is the string and the ball caught in her collar. Whoever seeks her mouth, that fountain of life, dies of thirst, just as my heart does. The sun's own spring of light, for all its brightness, is but a single drop from the well of her chin. In loving her, patience, that once was drawn as tight as a bow, now hangs looser than the knot of her broken promise. The heart that beat so hard within my chest, I saw at last that even it was not one of his men. So let it be, if my heart is not under my command, for whatever it is, it belongs to her anyway.