Unquenchable thirst of love…

Naivety's in all I say.

I pray insanely, without measure
I'm whispering to you each sentence.
Love is the only creed I treasure —
I tell in worship and entrancement!

I long to melt with you in it
So our prayer'll be complete.

Sonnet 89

A pilgrim, philosopher, free-liver and poet
Enamored of ladies and art,
I've been living here forever, I know it,
Though now life of mine seems to start.

This world is so cruel, so wicked and fierce,
Where sweat with the blood flows down.
But God's in my heart, that is known to exist,
And people would name it Love.

Yes, if not for it, what's the reason for me
To enter this world, to be born?!
The cover of treachery, scary to see
Was not meant by me to be worn.

No, life is a miracle, growing above
The blood and the tears – the sprouts of love!

Sonnet 94

Here are again love's traps and tricks
Predicting them is not so easy.
Which stranger's face can love depict:
Of meretrix or the Mona Lisa?

And even if you're duke of Guise
Even if you're as smart as a whip
Then all the same the lovely whims
You will fulfill and act likewise:

Along the ledge you'll go, so pleasing
And sign so tender serenades,
And kiss her footprints and her shade
In Paris, London, or in Piza…

Amour, you'll finally take your crop
Love is the thing you can't fend off.

Sonnet 105

Love and music

I'm finally given to my love
As I am given to the tune
And I am yielding to the tune.
As I am yielding to my love,

For love and melody in me —
Integrally they live and sound
Like face so dear that I found
Like fervent voice, so close as can be…

They still resound in my soul
Like lust for life and lust for happiness
Like first oblation in your presence
But if sounds fade, so far and small

Then soul of mine will be deserted
Like empty stage with went down curtain…

Sonnet 111

Each thing's subject to rhythm returning
The clothes, tune and poet's lines
If not for them, much harder could be life
Like that of warrior with no tunic

The bottle of wine and the ale barrel
You cannot fill beyond the brim,
By winter fall the leaves of sallow
And even Edem's too small for Eve

Now all the heirs of Procrustes
Would like to put me in the pencil case
My bones they're breaking, very crusty
But only soul they cannot chase.

It is like aeon, all embracing
But with no love it has no basing!

Sonnet 113

Things have their cost, it's known
In dollars, euros, cheques and cash.
Thing have become so wiery, monotone,
The ghost of lucre is turning all to ash

I guess that is no place for bargain,