Pen to the paper, words of angels
Flow through this paper-adulterer,
And onward, to the surface below.
This ink-tamer belongs to me,
My mind, my craft are perfection.
Such woven quilts, of poetic triumph,
Will live on beyond my calling,
My calling to another existence.
Music, the ultimate symphony,
Of word and sound, of heart and mind,
Channels the knowledge-tank
Into action, praising the women
In the glorious, chivalric traditions of old.
Such a thing has honored many,
But only one, the lucky girl,
Has been honored with multiple poems.
Such poetic praise, deserved by few,
Is the highest honor, which I can give.
She is blessed by fortune, you could say.
I disagree—she deserves it.
I shall rise above skin-love,
As shall she, to reach where I shall go,
And be united as one, forever.
This style of love, poetic expression,
Has been lost, I’m sorry to say.
But it is my job to bring it back,
Place it upon the pedestal where it belongs,
With the girl in the red hair,
More brilliant, more alight,
Than even the most perfect desert rose.
It is she, then youngest of our people,
Who has taken me out of comfort,
And into a place that I don’t remember.
I am willing to go, however,
For the time for fear-reaction is over.
I shall cast away my hopes and fears,
If only to let this proceed,
For I am no longer willing
To stand by and watch,
For love-wreckers are all around,
Ready to break us apart.
I shall be victorious.