What is this that lyes so deep within me,
That holds on so tightly,
That I can not release.
It be love?
Or a lovers’ lie?
A deed of a deed,
That will soon make me cry?
I ask thee not.
Nor ask I.
For I am not doubted,
That thee love is true.
Nor do I intend to suggest it too.

I merely say,
That which I think,
That I ought not.
I beg not thee strike,
For my murder is thought.

Whence it be that I turn away,
To find another route.
I then,
Will give thy the sword,
To giveth my souls clement.
To asketh of,
Before received,
Is more to ask of thee.
Of anything more,
Would be of wrong,
In which I’d no longer breathe.
A name is mine,
That of which I own.
Thats’ memory will fade.
But have it be known,
If soon I’m gone,
The person I was,
And am to thee.

 
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