the warming wind tells that night is waning,

yet sleep has not taken me in her arms

I'm awake doing nothing as taxing

as writing down the virtues of your charms

countless others in time have done the same

weaving tales of muses in prose and poem

while keeping in foggy mists their own name

and here I am,their heir,alone at home

sitting in the dark,pouring my hearts content

into a codice,a secret journal

sincere emotions flowing through a pen

but I'm forever locked in denial

that you'd ever read his piece of my self

but i'll endure without respite nor help