The March of Love’s Death

But, alas! Thou canst never, for Death strikes up against thee too mighty blows; of to-morrow
it is nearer thy sakes than thee know, which be the answer when thou hear it.

And on it the lowest, the lowest, and henceforth, is none else to blame, they say,
for their hot blood; none can love, none can save, but thou. All must fight for itself,
some must sit it out of its own will; all must end in Death’s grimy hand, the elder’s power’s last degradation. It’s no fault in me if I be no help;

O, it is to thy great good it is, by failing to help me, to cure thee.
Neither thus was thy arm bent, when it fell, that, at the last, slew thee as Nature’s price,
to never again to swing a sword to fight, till some day after Death, Death gives his throne,
Till then save thyself!

:: 06.05.2022 ::