Mad with desire, madly in love, hungry, unable to keep still,
Love makes me restless and unhappy,
Thanks to love, I lack accuracy and will.
Love makes me pitiful, sad, unmanly, creepy, sappy,
Untrustworthy, discontent, unable to sleep.
Love? It sends me to the ends of the earth. To weep.
All wisdom tells us love is better than hate,
But the wise are not even partially right—they are wrong.
And in love, and loving love, I excoriate love in my song.
My beautiful love, the one whom I love, is angry every day.
Her hatred makes her content; sick of my desire, she feels
The emotion which triumphs in itself; because she hates,
She doesn’t need, or want, the crushed lover, who waits.
She hates the lover, the lover’s needs, hates his desire,
And therefore her hate is a steady, patient, fire
Which desires nothing, for love is desire;
Anger, her steady, calm, bright, and purging fire.
In her anger, she is happy to close the door and be alone.
Hate is the army playing cards, the queen blessed, the solid throne,
Anger, the triumph of the warrior, the male winning his way
Into the valley of the dark which hides the redundant day.
Love whines and cries, pins all on hope, and is too lazy to pay his bills.
Love is poverty and debauch and it’s love, not hate, who, furious with desire, kills.