Love is like a whistling whore
Sexes and seduces
In tune with her melancholic folklore
She perishes in another’s passionate fire
Consummating her true self
As she beckons her highness, majesty or sire
Any dawn and dusk is far too anew
Spreads and screams
Left thousands who have tasted her on cue
She drags from one man’s arm to the others bed
Coaxes and caresses
In sweet illusion she skips away to the dead.
Do I turn to you, my love
At this moment of tragic inheritance
Or do I turn to you, my passionate word
To lay my bloody sword in meek acceptance
Coerced to the helm, partaken in both
To whom do I bid adieu is my own
Nothing left to perchance
Regret in the aftermath, none of which unavoidable
Led my hand where the hearts’ foreseen unkind
I have not sailed the seven seas
Nor climbed treacherous mountains
But give myself in his hands of peace
Yet to me the same sweet is my sour
For my words, I never did have to lure
To flow a path they picked
They rose and fell on their torrid fate
Not like anything man can ever make
But words, now owe it to him, their head and their toe
In birth speaketh his name, as in death
In his joy, in sorrow, in his humble and in vain
Here I place myself at the crossroads
Coerced to the helm, with a partake in both
Cause every pride has no more than one king
For I must chose the ruler of my married ring
Do I turn to you, my love
Do I turn to you, my word
