Unfaithful

very little moments in a cold room
after all those nights on your sordid bed,
before the sun coats us from that sly gloom

that are in the lonely clefts of the head;
no fruit against your voice I taste more sweet,
nor lips of another move me to thread,

decided your touch I renounce to seek.
never has one in moonlight been praised fair,
cruel would not be the grave under your sheet,

if by ill-fated panes appeared the glare,
stirred the judgement mute breathes hard with a wail,
ax high, that shall descend upon us bare.

as does snap the sea in a storm all sails,
the shrieks, the plaints, and lament a deep tale.