Anna Wickham - Paradox

My brain burns with hate of you.
I am like a green field swept by scorching wind,
Everything withers.
There is nothing left of promise
But black death. Yet in my heart is our eternal love,
Hard and pure as a moonstone,
And like an opal,
Subtle with change.

Anna Wickham

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/paradox-44/