By Mory Keita
Am blind, deaf or dead? O sweet love.
Dost thou exist in pure hearts? O wistful thinking.
Will thou ever shine ere my end? O heart-breaker.
Shall I pierce my soul with this blade? O quixotic madness.
Shall I run from thee forever? O courier of pain.
Gallantry and flattery speak not for me:
Ages crumble from the ancient ruin of time,
And passion vanishes into oblivion.
Now, I thy loyal servant, who traversed the desert,
Defied mother nature’s will to come to thou,
Stand proudly before thou to declare my love:
Gentle lords and ladies of sacred Olympus,
Here is my sunbeam, commander of my desires, my love.
Behold! How her grins are enchanting,
Beware! They're more fatal than the kisses of Medusa.
Love! What a strange word are thou?
I wish I had never known or heard of thou.
But alas mortals’ hearts are vulnerable to emotions.
Tho’ I breathe, breathing is but unsustainable pain,
And tho' I eat, feeding is but mere distraction from pain.
O harsh, heartless pain, is thou name love?
Or is thou synonym of affection?
My heart bleeds, my soul morns my lost.
A bleeding heart is but eternal damnation.
Thus, Dammed be love and its vain emotions.