Her love shines like the Moon,
And shines on no one else but him,
Her song is sweeter than the blackbird sings,
And yet he doesn’t hear her tune.
She’d serve his every whim,
And plight her troth forever, and she brings
To him the most wondrous gifts and the finest things.
He sees them not at all,
He doesn’t know that she exists,
Blind to her presences and deaf to her call;
She has less substance than the morning mists.
How cruel is Fate, she cannot stir
His heart, and I mean even less to her.
[The above was written for a poetry competition circa 1990,
although technically a madrigal is a song. I can’t
remember the details but I certainly made no attempt at
the time to compose any music for it.]
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