A beauty has profounded you, in which the smallest pettle has shredded a thousand roses.
Of the breasted bird, a thousand creeds are given, of purple and gold robes; from the valleys of narlwood and rockcrete, groomed and plumped from the eyes of Constantinople’s beauty.
The shimmer of the valiant chivalry stands at a crossing point, the ayia of dignities. Whether we must pursue the value of the lusted, or the honourable bronze plate,
Silent and preserve as it has been, only to be awaken when unlingered of harmony. The harp of Eros.
For what is of worth, if worth itself has no value? If all becomes necessities and all necessities become granted? The slither of un-dying precept, from the vanity of a king.
Here on this pain of the ford, my wishes are given, even if it means the sweetest of dreams lost; the eternal cosmos of your undying presumption is where I find peace.