This bitter house passed by fairest travelers
Surrounded by a moat of heaven, of joy
In which rest the drowned sons of the heart.
The godlike cup of honor
Brought down to them like
Peerless fairness, left traipsing
Along the road to fortune- they now
Wither beneath the presence of war.
How is it that the blood of desire
Mixes so easily with reverent waste?
Why do your books so quickly split,
Cracked open by the sky?