Home » *

Monsieur, alors les chattes de lune;
Jusqu’a avons engrangé ne plumes de malheur,
There shall be no peace in mine so soon,
Nor shall be happiness shall this deter,
The art of such flight I bid you adieu,
Now I give sight my lacking purpose here,
I am but a slave to fate and nights tonight,
So that I sleep away the thoughts I sear,
Then never can I come to you so right,
Then leave me here so bitter I ought stay,
Now never see my name through cold glass,
So when I stand beneath the core to lay
Can I not spell your name in fire to pass?
So walk me home and I shall set you far,
The indigneous tribe in mind untoward
Has arrested my mind from you to bar
That I can never see you much forward.

%d bloggers like this: