Poetry of a Conlanger

Monday, April 09, 2007


Don’t play innocent, love of mine—
You must have done something.
I am possessed by the thought of you,
Obsessed with seeing you again—
I can’t bear this separation!

Pace, pace, back and forth—
Number the days, the hours—
Only a thousand minutes until I can kiss my beloved again!
A thousand?!
That’s one thousand one too many!

My eyes yearn for the sight of him,
My hands, to hold his,
My lips…ohh, would that Time could pass away
Like dew and morning fog;
Pound away like rain until the hour
He holds me once more.


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