How Strange that You Think I Love You
How strange that you think I love you
when only time will tell:
when I've conquered death and heartache
and braved the gates of hell,
when, world within my fingers,
I let it slip on through
for wonder of your whisper,
for glory that is you.
How strange that you think I love you;
all around this sinful world
the serpent of destruction
like gallows-noose is curled.
Till, like thunder rising,
I lift that head to slay,
how can you trust my promise
to last beyond this day?
How strange that you think I love you
when in this world of lie
scarce one deed is done
the next does not deny;
no proof is in my promise,
nor certainty is saved,
until what binds me to you
outlasts the world's own grave.
How Strange Is That?
I felt I fell in love with you today; how strange is that?
Waiting for the bus you stopped and stayed to chat
and suddenly and subito my head was overturned,
unbalancing my body, making blood to burn.
How can one love a woman and not even know her name?
Some mischief-vested cupid clearly plays a little game;
uncanny things, ungrounded, maddening, and swift,
throw the world off kilter, make the earth to shift!
Meeting you but once, but for a little while,
I am haunted by your eyes, the flashing of your smile;
and though I hardly know you, nonetheless my brain
spins out imaginations of pleasures earned and gained.
But swiftly comes its death as swiftly came its birth.
If it swiftly falls away, what is such feeling worth?
The merest little fizzle, a frenzy in the brain,
and after sudden torrent nothing will remain
but cynic's self-suspicion, memories that fade,
and the wry and quiet gravestone where madness has been laid.
