It has been already too long since I last felt the tenderness of your touch in such moments of temperate affection, as to not be of this land but of the sun.
The table, round and strong, as once stood with the brave in boldest defiance of all beyond decency, now lays broken as the fragments of our devotion. Here lay the pieces of a shattered heart, each sized as to thread the needles eye, and be lost to October’s wind.
That such chivalry as given to knightly ways should be lost to our sacrifice, and that this sacrifice should now burn so coldly, where adoration once stood, is to know love’s end as the summer meets autumn gold.
As passions flame once burned, our weakness in the eyes of irresistible splendour has laid cold the ashes now seen. Our summer gone, we burn in the ice of winter pale, broken but without remorse.
As Pyramus with sword drawn, I mourn thee sweet Thisbe, and long that your love of man should not be shared with that of heaven, for I feel thy loss.
Should these be the last words, then let me rest weary of trite promise and be given to the warmth of a memory. For my wounds lay deeper than any cut from the steel of Arthur’s blade and I shall not yield.