A More Polished Soul, Finely Ground
Am I a fool for what I do?
I inhabit souls, and more than one.
I have reason to believe
That if I cease to grieve
Or give the affection thou greedily breathe
I shall never feel bereaved
If I lose one soul
That was meant for me,
But was writhing, with a spear in the headless throat, singing in your name.
A more polished soul is one without clutter.
One good soul removes the other
My old memory, a blameless brother
My present, a shameful mother.
A more polished soul, finely ground.
One with the dust, so wind is found!
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