LoveOf all the strangeness in Love's Lands, That I should wither at your hands My flowers die, and my gardens fade In all the hours of love we made... In all the hours we had in bed, That I should view those times with dread Those acts of Love you would not do Oh perish the thought of me and you! When all that's left is the bliss of long ago In another's arms, then now is Woe And far removed from his vast Delight I think of him in the dead of Night. HFK -1999 |
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