One,
Who with her words,
Has shattered and torn
And bound and repaired,
Should never be so sad
As to believe that silence is the same
As condemnation.
How can one forget
The passionate howl,
And the most tender caress.
In anger she struck
In the night of grim declarations.
Of lamps ever lit
For eyes and song and bravado and daggers.
She knew not until the dawn
That in every work, of the infantile days
Was a fragment of labor, dedicated,
To the lustre of her abyss dark eyes alone.
Eyes, which have shone in the darkest day.
Eyes, which have darkened an evening of flickering flames.
One,
Who's voice, though dissonant to ears this cold
Nevertheless, has sung the sweetest strain,
And etched southern flowers upon the brain.
One,
Such as her,
Shall always remain,
In the core of who I am
I will remember your name.