This is love that life has given,
and it's to You that I'm driven;
a star to twinkle in my heart,
a lily to bloom in my heart,
a beauty of which no bard has written,
a rhyme that cannot be broken,
and wings to lift me toward the heavens.
It is You, O Western Woman,
the spark of my fascination,
that I love with a poet's love.
and, say my Heart, a poet's love
is high among gods, and rare among man;
born in a poet’s sacred den.
It’s a love that angels covet even.
Listen to the songs sung at night:
Solomon has the Shulamite
whom he loved with impassioned love,
and with the same ink cast above,
Romeo was given Juliet by the playwright,
who taught us romance is a dove
napping on the moon while ghosts quench the moonlight.
But I have You, Western Woman;
a rose blooming in an ocean
of thorns, and a lily floating
on a sky clouded with nothing.
Yes! I have You; the rhythm of my yen,
the reason these words have meaning,
a river of rhyme flowing from my pen.
Ha! It's a love God has given,
and it's You, O Western Woman,
that I love with a poet's love,
— a relentless, lyrical love,
the kind of love that makes a poet pen.
So as I pen this rhyme of love,
I pray God keep you till we meet again.