They say my lover was found as an infant,
abandoned in a forest of roses.
Yet even now he runs from the smallest spider,
afraid to walk alone when night descends.
On the street he moves with girlish airs.
My lover—
my delicate lover—
ah, bastard! my lover.
A matchmaker brought him to me,
from a village far away,
from a family proud with lands and estates,
a family the people call “sire.”
Yes, he was chosen for me,
the husband my parents desired.
My lover—
my betrothed, their chosen prize—
my lover—
ah, bastard! my lover.
Even on cold nights, he sleeps alone.
He speaks only of his family’s pride.
Our union is nothing but a contract on paper,
while my youth withers, wasted, beside him.
He polishes his image, deceiving the world,
but not my heart.
My lover—
my smooth-tongued lover—
ah, bastard! my lover.
I too have a tomorrow.
At times I ask if we should part.
He falls to his knees, begs me to stay—
fearing the world’s laughter
more than the loss of my love.
They say my lover was found as an infant,
abandoned in a forest of roses.
Yet still he runs from the smallest spider,
still trembles at the dark of night,
still struts the street with girlish airs.
My lover—
my delicate lover—
ah, bastard! my lover.
