Mine is the heart of infernal scorn,
Where love rots and angels fear to tread.
Embittered by the scars that youth has borne,
And strewn into the Valley of The Dead.
Amid the fierce, perennial gale,
And with darkness ravaging the sky.
Clouds of black are burst upon the vale,
Where the corpses of my love run dry.
Sure as night is dark,
As the sun sets in the west,
You have slain my heart.
Tis nothing but a drop of rain,
That ambles down my pallid cheek.
From I, of all, who feels no pain,
And how could I, the stoic, weep?
It was not borne within your name,
Nor does it answer to your call.
In me, you’ll find no heart aflame,
There’s nothing left for you at all.
And if I say it was a tear,
That fell in sorrow from my eye.
That broke in two this calm veneer,
And feigns as droplets from the sky.
It does not bear a bond renewed,
For there is nothing here for you.
Ian Stewart Black 