At 00:37 10/31/2002 +0800, His Grace, Bishop Mark wrote:

Of course, a truly modern version of this sonnet would be unprintable, but cleaned up it might go something like:

Can love last forever?
And what if it did?
Nights like when Tom called to say that he couldn't come back
Because nothing felt the same anymore
Seared her soul and she thought "Why not?"
"I've found a younger, truer kind of love," he said.
And she wanted to scream and scream at him like a banshee
For knowing how a wrinkle killed the bloom of romance.
She hated his guts forever but he never thought about it.
Anyway, that's how I see it.


Good job, that's a real masterpiece of translation.


Poets must be a distinctly unhappy lot. But then, I believe that they do sometimes accurately reflect the spirit of the times. (Tom, Elf and other present company excepted, of course).

Not so, my friend, my finest poetry always comes out of some sort of misery. I'll take the first statement, Poets must be a distinctly unhappy lot.

Till who is ONLY speaking for himself

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