en ese momento comienzo a odiarla.
Since we made an ideal of it.
The moment I swear to love a woman, a certain woman, all my life
That moment I begin to hate her.
My love dies down considerably.
It's a cold egg, it isn't love any more.
If it doesn't fade, it is not a flower,
It's either an artificial rag blossom, or an immortelle, for the cemetery.
Or the personality assumes it as an attribute, or the ego takes possession of it,
It is not love any more, it's just a mess.
And we've made a great mess of love, mind-perverted, will-perverted, ego-perverted love.