There is a hatred,
reserved and well matured,
fermented long
– and then three times distilled –
that’s set aside for those
that once were loved.
Its bilious hue is intimately known
to all who’ve been betrayed
and who have had heart broken,
all who have been abandoned,
left disgraced – as for dead.
All those who drink this draught
will live to rue the day:
for it transforms the good into the bad,
and changes all affection to despite.
So when this cup is offered thee,
cast it away.
Do not hesitate.
Do not delay.
Remembering what was good,
though it is gone.
Accept the loss,
allow the wounds to heal;
let drop whatever tears must fall
and then pass on.
