Her First Sonnet

True love is when

The bud of the rose blooms for the Saint

In your magnificent heart

And stabs it with its thorns.

He gives tenderness

Who loves you surely.

In full voice he cries:

I am asking nothing in return.

Though he survives hundreds of years without you,

When in the fog you appear

He easily throws even himself,

Only for your common heaven.

He has no fear even of nudity,

Because he knows: No chill is there.