I loathe that thou didst ne’er make me feel
Enough, sufficient, worthy in thy sight,
Able to earn, if only once, the seal
Of hearing it from thee, in word or write.

I loathe each time that I was left to frame
A better ending to what we would say,
Each talk, each phrase, some other chosen name
Than that which from thy mouth’d found its way.

I loathe that I did ne’er cease to chase
The thought of thee I carried in my head,
So finely drawn, so perfect in its face,
That even I believed not what it said.

I loathe that I could never keep in rein
My fears, my secrets, dreams, and verses too,
And squandered days, in vain and bitter strain,
To give thee naught, dressed as something new.

I loathe that I can write of naught beside
But this same loathing, I loathe these songs,
I loathe to sing, at last not able to hide,
That thou art still half of my cursed soul.

Marco Delrio