I’ll fold my pen, tuck it away,
No more will love drip from its tip,
For I’ve emptied the well of longing,
And sealed the heart where verses once bloomed.

What more is there to say of love,
That hasn’t been whispered to the night?
The moon’s tired of hearing the same tales,
And stars have dimmed from too much light.

I’ve written of roses, of thorns, of rain,
Of endless...