Poem 3

Don't give the seekers of mere whim a place among true lovers; it would be a shame for you not to tell the rose from the weed. So that no dust of grief might settle on your heart from my cries, I held my very breath hidden in my chest out of fear for you. My sighs are storming the heavens tonight, so think carefully, dawn, and hold your breath. Aching with longing, you set out to open the litter; do you know what blood drips from the wailing of the caravan bell? That moon-faced one was hurt by the doctor's voice, and I fear she may suddenly count everyone a stranger, like the rest.