The lad who wrote a lass, eulogies,
with duets of souls and moans,
what think he? That love is a child’s play?
The lass who sang a lad, stimulating symphonies,
as to engulf him in melodious ah's and oh's,
what think she? That forever is a hearsay?

The intrigue of Cupid's arrow whose shot slit the hunter’s heart
so gloriously, he returns home singing of butterflies and fireflies,
left a scar underneath his throbbing art
one that would surface seconds awhile.
But, if the end of affections as such were martyrdom,
would dead men ever lie?

The nostalgic scent of sunflower, housing spider webs,
that attracts hungry butterflies to death’s nectar,
to come sip from a spider's chalice,
get trapped in venom, and gnash hearts in vain.
But, if the end of desires as such were murdered with malice,
would dead men ever lie?

When passions are spent and there's nothing left
would the field of love remember to farrow again?
Would a grain of hearts, in a fist of sigh, fall to the ground?
But like everything good and beautiful, dead men never lie,
and a heart that loves truly, never detaches.

#Pengician #SSA

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