Sonnelle 1

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Love, that juvenile, betrays our conscience

Not knowing conscience born of love

The subtle deceiver urges us through the abyss

Memories of past faults

And in betrayal, whatever form

Avoids the body’s treasons

Our minds, asleep, hope for fonder dreams

Our souls, forgotten in petty triumphs

Still themselves to measured reason

Such triumphs, now long forgotten

Point to their iconic prize: pride

While by it, conscience stands aside

Contentment prodding us along

Forgetting details of affairs

Not wanting for clearer conscience

Yet holding to the call:

The love for which one will rise and fall