Oh my fair lady,
It isn't hard to see,
There is a speck,
A shred of quality,

I have found my nurse,
And she is thee,
The one whom speaks,
Of sweets and delicacies,

She talks of cakes,
From Chryseas' hand,
The sweetest treats,
From across the land,

You entice me with push,
As I try to pull,
It seems my desire,
Can never be full,

Oh, but alas,
For my love is for naught,
This isn't the love,
That a lover has sought,

For there seems to be,
A strong line in this mess,
Between what is love,
And what is obsess,

I do not wish for thee,
To be caused undue harm,
For the one that I speak,
I would give up my arm,

It is better to love,
So, as the story go,
And to have lost,
Then to never know,

Pain for lost love,
Is harder than most,
But no pain is greater,
When your love is a ghost,

So, my spark,
For whom my heart has fell,
With unending grief,
I bid thee farewell

And with heavy head,
The lover did rise,
He took a deep breath,
And looked up to the skies,

The sun shone down,
With all its glory,
And the lover knew,
There was more to his story,

He felt the pain,
Of a rejected love,
But felt the freedom,
Of the wild dove,

Unhindered by grief,
He put boot to the ground,
And set foot to the path,
For his purpose to be found


Penned by my hand on the 14th of Phaestian, in the year 601 AF.