Dear friend of the ages, hear,
How I owed him the colours of my soul
Which, like the transient tempers of sunrise,
Sang its elegiac, heart-shattering dole.
Through him, my larval thoughts matured,
I found the wind beneath my wing-éd laze
And all my cobwebbed, famished passion
Surged with this cathartic craze.
Yet, to him, I was a bird of spring,
Perched lightly on his grandiose mast,
Whose flight wiped its presence as a cold breeze,
That had lingered from the winter past.
Maybe his lover and he would stroll
Down the banks of sunset-coloured rivers,
Discover old streets and hidden flowers,
Amidst the charm of grey autumnal shivers.
Maybe they will lean over and watch
Ferries waft through crimson tidal rise.
Maybe she will, through gold dust winds,
Mirror the hurricane in his eyes.
Inspired by Dante Alighieri and Beatrice Portinari’s torrid, unrequited love affair.