I shall hate you
Like a dart of singing steel
Shot through still air
At even-tide.
Or solemnly
As pines are sober
When they stand etched
Against the sky
Hating you shall be a game
Played with cool hands
And slim fingers
Your heart will yearn
For the lonely splendor
Of the pine tree
While rekindled fires
In my eyes
Shall wound you like swift arrows
Once the speaker has graduated to playing her hatred like a game, the subject will wish the speaker were still hating him (I’m assuming a male subject here) in silence like a solemn pine tree.
Hatred