Where cobblestones echoed with whispered dread,
Marlowe, with gasping breath, met his doom,
"Neptune’s ocean clears not this blood," he said.
In that dimly lit, foreboding room,
The world had lost a voice, too early, too soon.
..…
It begins with a murmur, a sigh in the trees,
Then, droplets commence, carried soft on the breeze,
Tapping on windows, like spirits that prance;
The earth, parched and longing, lifts its face to the dance,
Embracing each drop, with a grateful sigh,
A perfume of rain descends from the sky.
The rivers and streams, once silent and slow,
Now babble and chatter, as they swell and flow.
…..
Write no more of what could be, of shadows in the night,
But turn instead to what is real, and hold her to you, tight.
For love, when lived, in flesh and blood, surpasses every tale,
The poet’s dream, no longer sought, in her, at last, unveiled.
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