Tragic- what sublime calamity unfolds before us!
Lo and behold, spectators, for look who enters;
It is she, of whom the devil speaks.
A master, grandmaster if I may speak, learned in the
ways of lies and love, deceit in devotion; that is how she
learned of love, as if of war- mercilessly, strategically, carefully.
She has mastered the art of vellarial pretense, magnanimously
ill-fated, as if the stars above conspired for her only utter artifice,
But one must ponder, why, what has she done?
Nothing, and that is her crime. She is now stoic, unfeeling,
As if unfettered by all, the tall walls of nonchalance crowding
in layers above her locked, caged heart.
But the stars have not yet forgotten what she once was-
the epitome of joy; laughing, unabashedly, kindest of the kind,
tangled in her own small world.
But storms destroyed her fantasy, weathering her dreams,
wuthering her soul, withering the gardens of her love,
forcing her into destitute isolation.
So now, the stars have realised their fault, and
conspired once again to teach her love as it should be-
deeply, maddeningly, and irreversibly,
until even she cannot pretend
what she does not feel.