Orpheus
O my beloved, I hear you in my grave.
R omantic notes from thy lire trickle through
P proud rock now hollow from thy magic.
H owI long to feel thy hand on my cold breast.
E ven as I speak, they plot to kill you.
U tree envy of thy mythical, poetic, prophetic skills
S trenghten/ their resolve. I await you my beloved.
|