Sonnet CCCXXXVI

The glance is yours: do with it what you will.
To injure or inspire, love or kill –
the eyes speak volumes more than little lies.

I ponder this while looking at your eyes,
those pools of mercury, so cruel and cold.
Why leave such enmity untold?
Because the very animosity
would strike me dead with sorrow, instantly.

If loathing did not permeate your soul,
perhaps my eyes would not reflect your own.
Perhaps my eyes would not be lethal knives,
which pierce the heart with bitterness and spite
and read like Hate’s encyclopedia,
containing endless words, but not enough.

Sonnet CCCXXXV

Though dead for centuries and centuries,

you never cease to fascinate and please.

Collective grievances and heartfelt joy

of choirs in their polyphonic play;

Cantatas, mystic in their piousness,

yet human in their rich emotiveness;

Concerti, full of outward brilliance,

and meditative pensiveness within;

The worldliest of dances, slow and fast,

hypnotic rhythms merged with style and class;

A contrapuntal grace and mastery

in heavenly and haunting fugal themes.

Why does your music captivate me so?

I love it all, the little that I know.

Sonnet CCCXXXIV

My envy seethes below the fallen leaves,

defiant hills of discontented green.

I cannot find serenity today:

where are the placid fields of yesterday?

The strident branches reach up to the sky,

almighty in their rage, and ever high.

How void the arms which once held happiness,

which now are shrivelled in their bitterness;

how stark the cloudless sky of gray above,

a limitless expanse devoid of sun.

I have no place at lovely Nature’s feast;

the hosts all mimic me and tease.

I only see the progeny of rage,

which taunts me, multiplied in every way.