Oh what great honor to see you in the dark
when even the owls that reign the night could not
in the presence of the song of the sweet lark
blinded and much wearied did the heart trespassed
when in sadness thus forged the deep brass armor
enveloping embers of love that summons
bitter dejection, oh how one did pallor
hiding in, covering up, still it beckons.
passion is where one doesn't know and is yet
moved by littlest gestures and easily delighted
where in reality one so consumed lets
fantasy in and tomorrow be condemned.
as the burning red wanes in the horizon
no word or action could express affection.
