Chapter 1
August 28, 2024 at 5:14 PM
Shall I compare thee to the blooming flowers of spring?
Thou certainly share its loveliness,
However, nay.
Thy beauty outshines any season and its graceful events.
Albeit, 'tis truly absurd how thou art more ethereal,
Than the wondrous beauty that maketh all else funereal.
Thy hair is like threads of burnished gold,
Thy beauty is like a precious jewel,
But good gracious, heavens above!
Thy eyes—beauteous, though peerless!
“Ton œil mystérieux (est-il bleu, gris ou vert ?),” quoth Charles Baudelaire.
A presence that is of calming tides,
The resentment, I'll always hide,
And how much was the pride,
That one commit suicide?
For all is a haze,
Stuck in a maze,
Then strucked by the blaze.
Verily, I no longer bear the fondness I once held for thee.
Love is my sin,
It has always been; I shall not hold grudges towards anyone.
Thou art the most quaint person I have ever seen.
