The Ring
A small golden ring with a blood–red heart
Rests amid his gadgets and the clutter
Of his desk like some famous work of art.
He gazed at its bright luster then muttered:
“Why must your keepsake evoke this sadness
In my heart each time I gaze upon you?
Her ring remains but also my madness
Lingers on, anguish I’m suffering through.
Oh heart! Must your heartthrob keep on beating
Since my lover’s heart stop beating long ago?
Must this ring bestir in me these feelings,
Unfeeling band must you torture me so?
Will you ever grant the peace I’m seeking
Or remain a hopeless pawn of her ring?”
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