796. O poor love, that begs at passion's gate,

SONNET 796
By JH Sayyar
O poor love, that begs at passion's gate,
With hollow eyes that used to shine,
Once clothed in fire, now naked to thy fate,
A wraith that haunts the borders of divine
Thy song stirred the sleeping rose to bloom,
Now silence wraps thee in a colder grace;
Thy golden hours lie buried in the gloom,
And time has carved regret upon thy face.
Yet still thou linger, clinging to a thread,
A breath, a look, a sigh that will not stay
The heart that bled for thee now half-dead,
But beats enough to whisper, Go or stay.

Though broken, love, thy ruin holds a light,
A ghost of joy still burning in the night