Beneath my terrace and above the pine Are things I cherished, a loss I grieve. Pleasures, treasures, once were mine; Why must memory thieve? Friends and fiends are forgettable, I labor to remember such. Fames and shames regrettable, Lost – though suffered much. Forlorn, I am torn between extremes: Pious pauper and prideful king. Is glitter but gilded? So it seems; Love’s luster? No, so I cling. Mere gold Marigold became to Midas By his own hand. Damn you, Dionysus!
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