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Otherwise the poems are mayhem. I mean look at this garbage, you can't make sense of it on this page. It makes a mockery of the Sanballet!
 
 
The ship embraces its dock as lyrics lay claim to his mind. The paper burneth yet tis not eaten up!
~ I Shall ~
How doth one repayeth
thee who give so free?
My adoration, my consolation,
be meager it would seem.
 
Not out of duty -
thou dost not try -
compassion is thy being
 
All you deserve
is not of this world
and far beyond my reach.
 
Doth thy mind findeth peace
if my arms end the wicked?
Is thy heart not bestilled
if these arms bring thee riches?
 
Should thou fret over famine
I shall feed all the scourged.
Should thou run out of land
I shall conquer the world.
 
All you deserve
is not of this world
and far beyond my reach.
 
Should thy concern be the next life
I shall pray and shall sacrifice.
Should it be but for me thou desires
I shall be worth all the while.
 
All you deserve
is not of this world
and far beyond my reach.
 
All I shall do
but to gratify you
be meager it would seem.
 
 
Bent over the page to shield it from rain, by firelight he writes:
~ Celestial Scenes ~
Why, when they belong together,
must they both part ways?
The moon and sun kindred apart,
and this for endless days.
The moon doth leaveth Love and Land
though it be his rightful place.
The sun burns in his absence
and lonely there she waits
til stars align, his journey ends,
for then the night abates.
The sun and moon hath won the day.
The moon fights on while she remains,
nigh in skies but far away;
Her light with him for aye more stays
whatever it may take.
 
 
~
Plunged into the depths
of darkness untamed,
far b’yond what tides and what curls.
Not glory but only
retribution as aim,
lost city now found lay unfurled.
It becometh a tomb,
if not open grave,
as weapons of vengeance were hurled.
With the weight of a name
you swore by your fame
while buried b’low the majesty of the world.
 
 
~
He procures a place to lay his exhausted body among the sleeping crewmen. In what dim light the lower deck offers, his heavy eyes drink in the letter he unrolls; it's scent fills his beak. His left hand produces one blank leaf from his bag; his right, ink and pen. With all his might he staves off sleep to pen but this:
Thy words warm thy page with every letter,
And thy quill writes life unto the lifeless.
I am thy paper,
And thy quill thy love.