.
.
What treachery is this?
This, my heart, laid aside of its own accord,
or perhaps folded in beneath its own weight.
No longer can it squeeze, as it did,
at the discomforts of a friend.
Nor can it swell at the joys of a stranger.
I, whose eyes can look no further than my own tiresome lids!
A heart turned inward pumps the blood of the dead,
but am I such a corpse as that?
.
.
