I ache with the eagerness of Love's heat,
chilled by his iciness, entangled, dart-
pierced. His eyes, chest, this curly hair thrills me--
the pain an earnest of pleasures to come.
Still. Love, do not let this wound destroy me,
don't let these chains sear my skin, leave no trace
of the knots, scars from the heat, no ashes.
No do not shatter me, leave my soul strong
to wander free, cool herself, shiver.
Gentle the flame, welcome afterchill,
pleasant the dart, useful the wound, the heat,
the prison, and the ice. I wrap myself
in my chains, cold, vulnerable, yes, aching,
but who cares? Thank you Fate, Love, Nature, Gods.
B A2:49:80. In MS A. I suggest this was written before Pescara's death. Key