Again in exile from my Lady, who has shut me out for good this time, and who did not understand my ode to her virginity, since it was not my best work, and it did not seem to be hailing the true virgin beneath it all.
My poetry fails me.
I quote from an old master, exiled as I am ...
If I forget you, Jerusalem,
may my right hand forget its skill.
May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth
if I do not remember you,
if I do not consider Jerusalem
my highest joy. (Psalm 137:5-6)
I have a loyalty to my Lady that she will never understand, for she sees in it only the sinfulness of the singer and the foul notes that he sings.
But even here in exile I will no more forget her than I will forget the air I used to breathe.