Valjean's lament

It is a long time that I wrote this small poem - my first in my beloved language. I am too dry, sandy a man to talk in poetry, to patiently sift through the cells lining the beehive, to let it come to me. Instead, I mistakenly rush many a times, and the haste only leads me to be satisfied and happy with small - I crow with pride and delight over my one droplet of undistilled honey, when I could have had the combful of one. There are reasons that I understand, and which I seek to remedy, and there are reasons that will always be out of my reach to either understand or approach. But, let me share with you till the time this droplet, which was inspired one hot, equally dry afternoon, when I was, more than the usual, thinking about Jean Valjean. And since, it was not the Thenardier or Fantine's deserter who had excited me with wasteful fury as much as Cosette herself, I wrote this:

She has sprung from my loins
She has drunk,

oh my, so charmingly,

All my sap and my first tenderness
All the love

that ever was strained of me

Has been at her command,

useful or not I wot not

And yet

she derides me, she pains me

She lives in a world of her own
Where I am unbidden and unwelcome
She falls and she falls

but she forbids love to help her

She loves me not
And it is not that I complain
It is only that I lament.