No thanks to you, whatever gods may be,
For this obliterated state.
My two dead bitches' thugs and graft
Rain more than your cracked skies can pour
Yet less than the memory of her loving silence,
Now my wheel of fire.
Bloody capering in the court,
Manic disguises, sodden caves
Of forked fugitives are nothing
To her gaze, who merely stood,
Time's target, awaiting my return.
The prodigal's done, this bonny-boy's come home
To his sweet dove, last lass,
Whose constancy is all the proof you send.