How crude it may be,
To compare your deep eyes
Those stalwart solemn skies,
To those of the eagles of south,
Their youth belying great wisdoms most lack?
How crude it may be,
Outdone and foreseen
How crude it may be,
Yet, it's true.

How lost may I be,
To dream longingly on dreams,
On things that can't be seen.
To paint pictures in mind's grit
On your spirit's greens, yellows, and blacks.
How lost may I be,
Off of track, it may seem
How lost may I be,
Yes, it's true.

How droll must it be,
To see me fumble the same,
The ways of a thousand old dames.
Their hearts tooled by fancy
As they prance beneath moons, grinning slack?
How droll must it be,
As I drift through these scenes
How droll must it be?
Yet, it's you.

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Glacian, in the year 789 AF.