Will thou be in arrant disbelief if tell I what a mess am I not so today. Yet, I sit down to weave thee an epistle from my heart.
Will thou be unwillingly prepared to hark what I say. Ah! Will thee be lost in thy own mind, but will I be there for the catch just in time, but shatter must I now.
'Tis on a poem intense, poured from the fingertips may I die to touch.
Wrote she a missive to her oblivious lover, unaware of the cosmos her affection in his stars. What a sadness may you say whilst what a love will I utter.
So splashed the ridged lines on the pale brown skin of my fingers on the bamboo of her words, and could I only seek partial composure after I had read them for twice for two.
Went on she, with hurried fingers that waded slowly and slowly as must hath slipped her palms to the hem of the paper, only to know herself as not a "practised writer";
Composed she even further spilling all desire, violent and intense as sensed I deep in my veins whilst the eyes were shy for some unknown reason to be admired, only to acknowledge her recognition as akin to a silenter's.
Alas! what misery must clobber me right away to behold one's love too modest to let only let the sepia of leaves embody the divine taste...