To the Lucid Lover
The perfect woman dotes her frame,
the border of her beauty true,
and prides her fragile clarity,
for filth can never filter through.
Though I myself am not allured
by women who are without tint,
and frankly I can neither love
nor give them any compliment.
Don't think me harsh, those who apply;
instead, entrust your ears to me.
The film you bear belittles you:
remove thy trite transparency!
Your pale visage has no appeal,
for inner beauty yields a shade,
and smears its hue upon the face:
a palette that you have betrayed.
I much prefer my glass unique,
with blurry views and colored cracks.
I much prefer uncertainty,
and that, madame, your mirror lacks.
Abscond my dear from judgment's light;
resurface when you can reflect
the loyal sheet you were endowed
and tinctures that the youths expect.
Adieu to you young carnal pane;
I much prefer my windows stained.
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