In passage of days, as tender with green and given to the mildest touch of bloom, I came in return and through summer we shone. With age, resplendent with flame, as tread time in expedition of seasons, came the passing of moments.
Through these days, and with winsome measure, we did wander without burden of formality and in respect of sentiment, devoid of care and given to the inclination of love.
But for the grace of days in turning, such memories should be lost. Yet now, I would stop time in sacrifice of morning, and all for the preservation of a moment. I yearn once more the passion of night’s glory and the crush of ardour before lust.
In peril of duty, before the magnificence of honour and in contradiction of my heart, the lion’s call and the resting lamb bring flood. Retreat, this instance of weakness, for I am forever the fool, in attachment to that which I mourn and damned by my duty to God.
Now, denuded by season, stripped of life and naked before the frigid breath of winter, the harridan cries and I am bare once more to weakness.
Should this first pale light of morning be the last that we share, let it be without the cold touch of doubt – for these sands run thin, yet still they run and time is not yet of ending.
I challenge the sun, transient before dawn, to sink from the heavens and I charge the moon to muster the stars. But I command not the heavens – and the cruel truth of light casts shadow most felt.
While waking, without words but with candour – your gaze while knowing, your strength with smile and your fidelity in touch.
In king’s venture, devout to the call but with doubt of this moment, I turn. You shall not see tears and there can be no retreat from duty – but instead I give custody of my heart.
And come the end – the smoke and thatch as when I came, while cherry blossom since passed. I tread once more the sadness of being and mourn the loss of grace. – Your loving arms and warm embrace, your touch so warm and tender – begone.