Hallow, most serene,
Wooed with words wonderfully woven
Into love scrolls and scrips;
That delighted the pages of her heart...

Suddenly, his wind strayed,
Became the author of all her pains;
Scrambling every word...
Haling, hurling, hurting; till they taunt.

Love died that fateful day,
Buried beneath bosoms of frustration;
Amongst tormenting thorns,
To sprout anew, bud and blossom but....

She lingers, assured someday,
She'll become the bouquet on his gravestone;
Whence fate will cheer and jeer.