I was honest when I opened pretty eyes,
I know not about the world wrong ways,
But I saw in daylight my virtue’s surmise,
So I curse self when my lights gaze.
On the corruption of my eyes and soul,
I think the canker lies by birth in birth,
Mars the face beauty of trenched hole,
Ah! The foolish call it a precious worth.
A woman’s love may never be honest,
We believe in it, it betrays our being,
It slays your wish reaching on the crest,
Like a weaver’s spindle love is fleeing.
I believe in love but not in woman’s love,
I love my being not you, pretty kid-glove.