Sometimes to death must we be lowly brought
To find unbridled what rules desire
Where Reason and Virtue but whisper thought
Which hinders not our selfish soul's fire.
What creature must we be to claim that love
Comes with kisses, caresses, and songs sung
When 'love's merely the pain we bear thereof
When the 'selfish', for them, is duly hung.
For murdered be my Reason and my heart,
And if deep down the soul be selfish sown,
This death I die can not be torn apart
From hate, for love has, with hate of me, grown.
Such are all life's things: born the opposite
Where each must selfless bear the other's shit.
