A Tyrolean song that my loved one used to sing began to run through my head: Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' a rossa com' un flore, Ma ora no.

Non son piu biele Consumatis dal' amore.
[Once I was beautiful, white and rosy as a flower; but now I am not.
I am no longer beautiful, consumed by the fire of love.] I listened to the echo of that song as it reverberated through the desert of my heart.

I said: "Behold the happiness of man; behold my little Paradise; behold my queen Mab, a girl from the streets.

My mistress is no better.

Behold what is found at the bottom of the glass when the nectar of the gods has been drained; behold the corpse of love." The unfortunate creature heard me singing and began to sing herself.