How born of beauties graces thee,
the stars shamefully admit their envy for thee,
for doth her cup run-over in beauty,
her astute crown doth not dull in wear,
line for line as preserved in eloquence and equanimity.
Thy skin be fertile land, tracing my soul on these
golden sands, the peril in her fervent hold did linger,
nevertheless, in that passion did I tarry,
wherein death may visit me in wear.
To whither shall I run, to flee mi heart,
for your sweet words still hum in my ear,
and you, still fresh as the morning dew,
and made a vow, to death shall find me by your side,
and meant it not as lie,
for this lips bless you with prayer
and a single specatatle remain in my sight,
Adrift in a universes tale, looking for the gone,
where to belong, whither does love belongs,
If I belong, then it is next to you.

© Panducollections&co