Your intentions remain a mystery,
Like ancient language scrawled on stone,
I do not understand your secrecy,
A perverse desire to remain unknown.

You always were so foreign to me,
No matter the hours spent at dusty tomes,
No knowledge gained of any degree,
As I searched your glyph-filled catacombs.

But in brief, fleeting moments,
I swear I understood
Your hidden dialect of expression,
As your cold air blew
And I breathed you in.