No more the cross I wear, nor in my breast
Dwells holy faith; ’tis death: death without rest.
Like to the moon, whether I wax or wane
Still am I lifeless, cursed with this bane.
I give the vulture of my flesh to tear,
And shiver when the name of “love” I hear.
While yet I live he is devouring me:
I cannot bear this pain—Oh, set me free!
I am not dead—Love still dwells with me here.
I am alive—and some call me the “Ner.”[1]