Even in a state of melancholy,
he described her so elegantly,
knowing she had left him in his solitude—
as he was the poet, and she, his poetry.
In his writings,
there wasn't even a pinch of criticism.
He took all the blame on his narcissism—
as he was the poet, and she, his poetry.
He was questioned for his description;
people called "her" his fiction,
for in his words,
she symbolized perfection.
A moon with no blot—
who could conceive such a thought?
"Yes," he says,
"this time, the sun had blots."
Even in the depths of his despair,
she was described as generous and fair.
People asked him to make amends—
"That's where my poetry ends,"
as he was the poem, and she, his poetry