((Linnia, don't hit me. It's just a poem about reflections.))

I like green more than I like blue
And valleys better than the mountains.
I much prefer the grasses to the skies
As I gaze on.
I don't like her more than I like you
And much enjoy to stroke your lovely thighs,
And, futher up, to touch your heaving mountains.
Your breasts, I mean.
Do you suspect these words I speak are lies?
Your eyes are green, but I see the skies are blue.
I plow your valley, but see clouds that look like mountains
In your eyes.
My dear, for years I've dwelt these lonesome vallies
I am the goat who would ignore the mountains
Where the noble eagle round and round in circles flies
As I graze on.
And lovely are the flowers of the valley,
Evocative the lusty locust's cries,
Unlike the screeck of eagles on the mountains
Where they fly.
And where the chaste monk sits and spies
Last the light of day upon the mountains,
While in vale's night I watch them fade, reflected
In your eyes.

Pylades (the Cad)

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Valnuary, in the year 371 AF.