~ dedicated to Juliet.

All must have started from that night,
when we sneaked into the armpit of the dark;
secret steps sacred of the hearts
manifolded, the night grew its might.

Though no hymns, though no runes,
the spell kept its power to ruin
all the malice, all the misfortune;
so let the ritual thus begin.

A pit-pot, a handful of fairytale,
then the major sacrifice that would never go stale.
We buried our possible,
and that would promise, in the future, yours much more.

So raise your mind at war --
auspicious it meant for.
For a moment the good may run out,
like the fruits are exhausted now.

But there's Hope, safe and sound,
prosperous underground.
When the right season waters the moor,
the rosy wings will generate more.