Could I, who planned to storm your citadel
and consummate my expedition’s quest,
be so deficient in matériel
that I felt less oppressor than oppressed?
And later when I murmured terms of peace
before the flanking sentries of your face,
your militant maneuvers wouldn’t cease
to hound my weary legions back to base.
Thus I surrendered, startled by your glare
of triumph at seducing me to breach
a stony fortress whose chargés d’affaires
would mock the furthest limits of my reach.
For there, although mere outpost of your heart,
my armored Mars was pierced by Cupid’s dart.