Number 23

The one sick with missing you is in a sorry state; while you are far, no peace is possible. In your time no one has shown a sign of it: who has found rest while longing to reach you? Among all the days the world has known, my day is a dark day, an empty one. My face pale as straw, my heart searching for love like a scavenger; every lover ends up caught in your sack. You grow angry at whatever I say; still, my friend, I have a question for you. Are you truly like this with your servant, or are you simply bored with the old tale of lovers? With every turn of the wheel of time, the grief of losing you gives my hand a fresh slap. The moon said: me and your face? Yes, well, everyone carries some fancy in their head. You tie a golden belt around your waist, even beside one as frail and broken as me.