For The Eyes Of Isolde

I.
I know I should be killed, for 'twas I, Branghien
stole thy young love Tristan, whose years so pale,
whose locks all curled, my lady, now are mine.

I crept in, watched him cast off his cap so fine
by candlelight, as Tristan shed his mail.
I know I should be killed, for 'twas I, Branghien.

In thirty years I've once seen love divine;
and it was Tristan that held to me love's grail 
- whose locks all curled, my lady, now are mine.

And as he stood with hair like bronze, like line*
I watched him shed the shirt beneath his mail;
I know I should be killed, for 'twas I, Branghien.

He saw me, said his skin be none but thine
but - forgive me - my seduction did prevail:
his locks all curled, my lady, now are mine.

I vowed to serve thee lady, while our years entwined
but days have watched my faithfulness grow pale
I know I should be killed, for 'twas I, Branghien,
whose locks all curled, my lady, once were thine.


II.
I know I should be killed, for 'twas I, Branghien
stole thy young love Tristan, whose years so pale,
whose locks all curled, my lady, now are mine.

As he cast off his tunic, the hue of wine,
I saw his chest, his waist and hips so pale
I know I should be killed, for 'twas I, Branghien.

For a fragrant moment did I recline,
my head over his little drumbeat frail;
his locks all curled, my lady, now are mine.

I left him hungry, we did not taste the wine
the taste of two bloods, mixed into one sweet ale;
still I know I should be killed, yes I Branghien.

I pressed one crooked kiss onto the line
between his brow and hair; another kiss so frail
and his locks all curled, my lady, then were mine.

Before I pen these last of my remorseful lines,
know that I have left within a ship's great sails
that I may not be killed, I thy Branghien
whose locks all curled, my lady, once were thine.

II.
Forgive me though I break the very heart that's thine
  in taking for my own what was thy joy, Isolde -
perhaps it was instead Tristan that stole what's mine.

Oh, oh, how Tristan's skin was child-fine!
he smiled with desire uncontrolled...
oh forgive me though I break the very heart that's thine.

To roots of rose, to edge of my neckline
pressed he his lips, and sucked and strongly pulled.
Perhaps it was indeed Tristan that stole what's mine.

I left when I grew ripe, when I to love inclined,
when my body grew ripe, and Tristan bold
still, forgive me though I break the very heart that's thine.

As my hand left his back, thine anguished eyen
met me through the glass, and I ran to th' road
though hoping 'twas Tristan that stole what's mine.

Now faraway, I see the gulls enshrine
a sun of gold, and I pray, "Isolde,
forgive me, for I've broke the heart that's thine;
My life is yours, but your love now is mine."