How could you have let her go --
     That girl, the red-haired angel
Who looked at you with the fire of summer suns
And her heart icy like winter moon?

Was she not enough?
Or was she too much --
     And you not enough at the time,
Unable still to return to her that which she sought,
Or rather unwilling?

     Do you forget, wanderer, so quickly,
The paragon nature of the world,
The revolutions on axes and the revolutions of hearts
     And the fiery nature of that summer love
Awaken within you once more?
Or nay --

     Does the force not come to you as it once did
Your eyes blinded, or even blindfolded, to the desire you once feel?
Fair due, for the angel you mistook her for
     Was never there to begin with, and did she fool you?
Oh, traveler, nay again --
You willingly jested yourself,
     And pulled your own wool over your sight
     A fold, a kerchief made of the blood that dripped down your shirt-sleeve
And formed itself into true poetry
Wanderer, this is what I mean by love
Do you still wish to drink?