Now it finally comes to this—
Never more will the two of us kiss,
And my dreams of literary fame
Are gone, and all ambitions and writings seem the same,
And nothing I read, or feel, seems new.
But I still have sentimental feelings for you.
Sentimentality in respectable writing is not allowed,
Nor in cunning art: smudges of yellow in the large black cloud.
Law examines what you did,
And what forced you to do it,
But not the long, tortured, sentimental reasons you did what you did.
You always made light of unreasonable fear.
You became law. You laughed a hollow laugh. The sentimental in you died.
You decided to hate, not forgive—after you broke down and cried.