| Posted on Sat Oct 29, 2011 21:51:17 | |
| | Another attempt to cast a sparrow poem in sonnet form
Mourn, worshippers of Venus and her Son and any other folk of taste there be: My girl’s delight, her sparrow, has passed on; dearer than her eyes to her was he. As close to her as any girl her mother outside her lap her honey never moved but hopped around from one place to another chirp-chirping to the only girl he loved.
He now must watch the gloomy path unfurl down to the place whence nobody returns. Curse you, the god in whose maw beauty burns Orcus; you struck the pretty sparrow dead O wicked deed! O wretched bird! My girl her lovely eyes are weeping, swollen, red.
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