How distant now it all seems—
The forest, the hills, the streams.
Bodies—beautiful, fresh and young—
Their tenderness beyond the reach
Even of my imagination. Lust dying—
A blessing, you say? No. No.
With it goes all passion for life—
I am halfway to my grave.
Even the moon, distant lantern
I once looked upon with awe,
Now is like a worn-out garment
Thrown away and covered with dust.
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