A gusty squall rushed across the engulfing dreary eve.
Through the fluttering broken blinds, a withered face peered.
Silky tresses ruffled over her constantly glancing eyes,
fixed upon the gateway and swollen by ceaseless waiting.
At a blink of those soaked eyes did her mind hover back,
to the night where their silhouettes danced in the moonlit room,
that prolonged kiss, eyes bursting out with ceaseless zest;
the perfect reflection of ardent minds of fervent youthfulness.
Oh that jilted love, her heart was so feeble to bear.
He who fell in love with aromatic eglantines of springtime,
sucked that crimson rose and tasted the divinest dewy wine,
but now that the fall has dawned, is already a grotesque sight?
‘’Oh, that filthy low-living woman!’’, labeled by their keen spears.
Of course she is, if ever the utmost love of purity was to be ”filthy”.
Could her stamina abide that tide alone? Or else to cease breath
with that little nameless thing already breathing inside her belly?
The dulcet of his sweet-nothings; oh mere fancy flatteries!
She could never accuse of course, for the sake of her pure love.
She only wandered what dire fault could sunder him forever apart,
and is still waiting in despair, for that prolonged embrace…