Fate had intended to write me as ruined by the wine of love, but it only wrote the word 'ruined' and the pen could move no further.

Here, the poet reflects on destiny with a bitter yet tender irony. Fate actually meant to grant him a poetic kind of ruin—to be delightfully destroyed by the intoxicating wine of love—but its pen froze right after writing the word 'ruined.' Instead of the romantic, passionate downfall he was promised, he was left with plain, unvarnished misery.