Shall I call to thee once more, my love?
Thou arrow doth shoot into me from above.
Tangled stings of lover's passion never borrow.
Yet perched on the light of yester morrow,
She hordes my memory justly cloaked, an entrenchment.
Her Meadowlark breast sings of my contentment.
As my voice fails to muster thus.
Her lover's song doth turn to dust.
In the translucent glow of placid regret,
He sees the paleness of a face wet.
So saddening was once the passing rains,
Now forward, a bled heart remains.
Her pointed sharpened attraction once a desire,
Now merely a softened verse within my spire.
Thou stricken surprised; whilst I forthright,
To inform thee of tragedy ending thy night.