11 July 2011

Vi[r]gil

How with a gentle hand I dashed
And broke apart your life.
My careful pen a source of pain
To you, who now is left
With only words like these. Now smashed

Upon a page: careless,
Jotted, smeared, black and bold on white.
My pen and ink your like
Shall never see, your care, your might.
Not sorry, I confess,

Poor boy, it had to be, you see
The Words and story called
You know. And could I say them wrong?
When right they were, all told?
And you paid the heavy price, I see,

But do not think, my friend,
I went scot-free. Oh, no, I shook
With half-wondering fright
And yet went forth, and knew you struck
Against the angry fiend. 

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