Sonnelle 1

Sonnelle 1 Love, that juvenile, betrays our conscience Not knowing conscience born of love The subtle deceiver urges us through the abyss Memories of past faults And in betrayal, whatever form Avoids the body’s treasons Our minds, asleep, hope for fonder dreams Our souls, forgotten in petty triumphs Still themselves to measured reason Such triumphs, now long forgotten Point to their iconic prize: pride While by it, conscience stands aside Contentment prodding us along Forgetting details of affairs Not wanting for clearer conscience Yet holding to the call: The love for which one will rise and fall