Dearest Lady,

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FreeImages.com/Miguel Ugalde.

Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, Did my heart fly at your service…” (Shakespeare, trans. 1998, 3.1.63-65)

Thy beauty supersedes any sight, for thy beauty is more felt than seen. Vitality of the spring cannot match the blazing of your eyes nor the autumn colours represent the artistry of thy heart. But damn me, if I deny thy image, for thou art beautiful like a Christmas morning.

Thy remorseful eyes luster like a full moon in a night-lit sky. Thy sanded hair are like rays of the sun. Thy dribbling heart is like a lotus of a rose. I was captivated by such godly complexion. My heart hummed. My fearful eyes secretly captured thy beauty, against my will. From the moment I saw thee, my heart stirred like a bird, for thee are beautiful as a flower of May, gracious as a princess.

If every thing I want to say to thee represents a star in the night sky, then a lifetime would not be enough to express my thoughts. I desire to prig thy heart, like a starving wolf desires a prey. I could give thee anything thee desire, but every man says so. My admirations are just repetitions of the praises thee have heard from dozens of admirers and nothing I say will be new to thee. Save the honesty, with which I write these words. However, a shell cannot be opened by honesty. For it requires the efforts of the blade to obtain the pearl, just like conquering the heart requires the fight. I desire thy attention like a drowning man desires air, but thousands of miles make me a clown. I hide behind the sad tears and watch thee slip away. I found you and then I lost you. It’s a curse of Gods for my mistakes.

Gardens full of precious blossoms are like fields of hideous weeds compared to thy beauty. Not even the Queen of Roses is as fair and as bright. The rain cannot wash thy beauty away. Thy hypnotizing gaze could destroy empires as it did my heart, for thy gaze is a work of the Devil himself, for I was helpless. I pity the man, who will fall for thee, for thy naive youth is irresistible. I envy thy “salad days” (Shakespeare, trans. 2008, 1.5.76) and pity my absence, for I wish ‘twas me.

Young lovers can fly, but I cut my wings, for I would fall. Only a fool hurts himself. And a wise man retreats if a battle is not to be won. For anger comforts more than the sadness. And if I must choose, I choose none rather than this “vaulting ambition” (Shakespeare, trans. 1963, 1.7.27).

Let not my words be the whine of a young boy, for they are just sincere words. Let my careful words be friendly to thine ear, for my ambitions are as pure as a child’s tear. Just let me see your fragile beauty in the snowflakes of the coldest winters and let my warmth caress thee in the warmest days of the summers. Let me see you smile and be witness of thy ache. Let the chirping of the birds be the missive of my words. Let the shooting star represent my veracity. Let me be close to thine heart, my Lady…

My mind is sane enough to realize impediments and I must bow to them. I have no illusions and wish you well. I’m just a man, who momentarily fell for an angel. A dream, that was attractive and at the same time imaginary…. But tell me this:

“Who ever lov’d, that lov’d not at first sight?” (Marlowe, 1598).

 

 

References

Marlowe, C. (1598). Hero and Leander. Poem of the Week. Retrieved from on 13 February 2016 from http://www.potw.org/archive/potw38.html

Shakespeare, W. (1963). Macbeth. (H. H. Furness, Ed.). Dover. (Original work published 1623).

Shakespeare, W. (1998). The tempest. (S. Orgel, Ed.). Oxford: Oxford University Press. (Original work published 1623).

Shakespeare, W. (2008). The tragedy of Anthony and Cleopatra. (M. Neill, Ed.). Oxford: Oxford University Press. (Original work published 1623).

 

 

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