| | Posted on Sat Oct 29, 2011 21:51:17 | |
| | Another attempt to cast a sparrow poem in sonnet form
Mourn, worshippers of Venus and her Son
and any other folk of taste there be:
My girlĂ¢â‚¬â„¢s delight, her sparrow, has passed on;
dearer than her eyes to her was he.
As close to her as any girl her mother
outside her lap her honey never moved
but hopped around from one place to another
chirp-chirping to the only girl he loved.
He now must watch the gloomy path unfurl
down to the place whence nobody returns.
Curse you, the god in whose maw beauty burns
Orcus; you struck the pretty sparrow dead
O wicked deed! O wretched bird! My girl
her lovely eyes are weeping, swollen, red.
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