burning as I do in merciless insomnia;
wanting your eyes, seeking the curve of your hip,
I feel the promises impressed by your lips.
I repeat the ringing syllables of your name,
hear the martial accent of your step;
I open my chest, I bare my heart—this
weepy embrace is but lying art.
My bed is languid and lugubrious,
for you, sun of my craving, angel of kisses,
are gone, and I am alone and delirious.
I look at life with mortal rue;
all this, my lord, is due to you,
for it’s a week since I have screwed.