Beloved

My dear, yet most wild;
Do you not dream of skies?
Jests not my heart mild,
but tommorrow I die...

Fond with the needs pets suit,
night by night, come their way,
griped with hands, flee the brutes...
Reason blooming like days.

Much grain, very few slopes;
Which one did your curse sow,
in hand for your neck ropes,
fixed his eyes where winds blow?

I beg, lowered down my chin,
Do not walk again in sin.