The sun never asks the earth,
If she loves him less or more;
There’s no bargain to be made;
There lies no exit door;
The sea has no vows broken,
As each wave pulls from the shore;
She never questions her love,
Nor asks, if the land loves her more.
And I should have known better,
Before love made me a whore;
Maybe, before I lose to life,
I could have charged it a bit more.
When I love they, sometimes, say i love right,
Then, behind doors, they also softly, say,
That within the darkest caverns of night,
I love differently than in the day.
They speak of the numerous things I do:
Of the friends I seem, somehow, to acquire,
The way I dress up and how I walk, too,
Of how I’m a saint and how a liar.
I must have some guile to steal affection,
For clearly, I can’t earn it on my own,
Love I gain from filial connection,
Luckily, all by God and chance was thrown.
The moon has secrets to give me, for sure,
That’s how we witches are known to survive;
I am nothing but a dangerous lure,
Like handsome bears being drawn to a hive.
I have warped morality and no code,
For all see the beauteous life I live,
With wondrous occasions on me bestowed
And ingratitude is what they see me give.
So rumour has it that I am well off.
Nothing could I possibly need more.
Well-spoken, well-mannered and well thought of,
A never-ageing, immaculate whore.
Hearts Still Care 