Love is Woe, and Woe is Me
but She is Love, and She hath not brought Woe
She, with her sun-glinted eyes
        hath never brought Woe.
She, with an exquisite beauty as precious as a thousand roses,
       a veil pure as the most untainted white,
              her lips painted a crimson tide,
                     and a soul pure gold,
                     hath never brought Woe.
But I, feared beneath the Sea,
       am dark and malevolent
       lurking through golden rays.
I am the Rose's stem,
       to carry Her fragile frame through whispering winds,
              Unfortunate is She.
Hast I am the thorns,
       which will someday see again that crimson tide,
              but metallic streaming down her wrists.
I hold secrets at the bottom of the Sea,
       rushing water which will someday flood her fluorescent eyes.
I know the whispers of that wind,
       a warning which She, blissful in the ignorance, does not hear.
I recognize the danger,
       and it is that damage I fear,
              the dread I see...
For Love is Woe, and Woe is Me.