I write, and the air is still,
Do not disturb these moments
That I may take my fill
Of those insatiable torments.
You have stung, unwilling bee
And left your sting within.
It keeps its power to hurt,
I weep from unconsummated sin.
This loneliness I feel
Had thought it gone away
So unguarded, let down my steel,
When sweeping tears left me astray.
How much longer, how many moons must tease
And yet my heartís on fire.
If naught will help to ease
Would these few words be loveís funeral pyre.
Ezra Ben-Meir, History: #242, August 1984
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