freedom of thought and its expression

Saturday, May 17, 2008

You won it. I lost it.

Greetings, my dearest one !
I thought of you, and turned crimson.
Enough of me. How about you ?
Any tidings of anything new ?


The work is like that hungry vulture,
That returns every morning, to rupture,
Prometheus' ... Nay ! The Paperweight's liver,
While every evening I, the results, deliver.

The duty is given by he who is high.
What he requires, I get. I try.
It takes much time. That is the difficulty.
But I have learnt, and that gladdens me.


But, tell me, you should,
Of times bad, of times good,
For I'd like to know, how Time,
Treats this love of mine.

"This love of yours,
Is not very amused.
She's often bored,
And from working excused."

"Not good"

Ah, but you must see,
Any words from thee,
That are directed to me,
Is but, pure poetry.

"Get another"

Poetry is the ash of passion, I say.
My words come so, this way,
Only when you are in my thoughts.
For you see, I love you lots.

"Okay. I'm impressed."

Isn't that what a man seeks to do,
If he is to, his lady love, woo ?
To show her that his love is true ?
The longer way of saying, "I love you".


Give me not praise in a word.
Words are lost, once heard.
Give me more. Something of value.
I ask ... Give me you.

"Reveal it all."

No, my dearest. It is wrong.
For our love will then, not last long.
One thing this world has taught me,
Is that love burns brighter, in some privacy.

Yet love is not a candle to snuff.
It is a bonfire which mocks the wind, rough.
But test it not, for the dubiousness of such an act,
Will reduce a passionate truth, to a mere fact.

"A wonder"

Boy in wonder, is the name.
Wonder at how, this dame,
With those earrings and a smile,
Could, him, from the loss of his heart, beguile.

"You've lost"

[Conversations with Lavenda]

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