move me not to sorrow, my mourning heart

with your weeping songs of woe

slip off your wristwatch and let us be

unconcerned with the marching cadence

of that most cruel and pitiless taskmaster called Time

stand here before me in this place

and let us scream our grievances to the wind

till we are hoarse and without voice

let the wind take possession of our troubles

and carry them heavenward

let the gods, in all their stoic self-righteous glory

come to admire and covet what it means to be mortal

and to be tormented by love