There are many things of which I do not know
why the taste of wine-stained lips,
soft skin and silken sheets,
grasped in tender fingertips,
makes lustful hearts skip their beats;
or why the tide rushes, so subtly brushes,
as a hand of longing on the shore,
why it loves so quickly—freely,
and then no more.
but for all the things I do not know,
one greater truth presides,
people, they may come and go—
but never so
do lies.