In pain, we yearn a peace – release – of all;
In pain, do we await the Angel’s call?
What is it we, as feeble creatures, seek
To bribe our boiling bitterness away,
For we do love to feel, despite our being meek?
What we must wish to so attain is peace:
Relaxing, soothing, and awash in water
That cleans the plague from slave wounds suffered quiesce;
For naught is only naught – ’tis Limbo’s daughter.
Thou thinkst thou wantst to be without thy pain,
But of thy pain is love for roaring play
That gives it pleasures for the heart to gain.
If wished thou didst to be of naught, thy being
Would be feral; but still, wouldst thou find freeing?