When aged, and with limbs that have dulled and died,
when grieving has slowed and tears have dried,
and childrens' own forge forth in life
and forget, love, our pens and palette knife
Should wandering bards e'er address our tale,
their voices, the rival of nightingale,
through streets of guilt and grimmest gold,
Could fate forsake us our telling's told?
Who'll know, alas, our lover's hearts?
To whom shall all time and breathing impart
this missive, far more than of lusting or deed,
but one fair of earnest devotion and need?
What then, I pray, might we finally bestow,
to savor this lyric of love and and of woe,
for generations 'pon the next ~
a work of art, a scroll of text?
A serenade, a ballad fine,
a portraiture from berried wine?
A looking glass with silvered panes
to cast reflections of our names?
Please tell me, love, what shall we leave
of hearts' shared treasure unto which we cleave?
Oh yes dearest one, yes that surely will do!
We'll set Heaven's blaze when our lives are through...
We'll ascend sacred skies...with purest joy we'll embark,
forever you shall be daylight, love, and I shall be dark.