No thief but time could stael your rubied hoards,
and loss of memory my eldritch words;
no wolves but death's could decimate your words,
and none but entropy's my wasted wards.
The gilding dust no longe gloves your hands,
the rune mine write no longer speaks or binds;
your hands no more caress your docile hinds
or weave around my heart your lusting bands.
No more the crown of falsehoods round your head,
or round my neck the scorn receivéd deed;
the time has now begun for us to heed:
that love which once was ours is lying dead.