Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
I am sorry, Beloved,
That our hands were seared
By the star we reached for,
That our fingers ache
Because a golden moon turned ice,
And that our eyes, blinded
By the too strong light of our love,
Dare not look upon our hearts
Grown ponderous with emptiness.
We, who flaunted in Fortune's grim face
Our boast that we hand no need of wisdom.
Fugit amor means "love flees."
Written by Virginia Houston
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