I have written a poem for you,
Sweet scented maiden of the everglade.
Your crimson garment of light,
your virtuous rainment of joy.
It brings a rain of tears in my eyes.
And so you see, I have written this poem for you.
This poem worth its virtue in prose,
like your smile, absolute poetry in motion.
Which is like your dance.
Which is the dance of Luthien, my sweet Tinuviel.
The nightingale that sings at dawn.
Eventually it is my insomnia, that makes me write a poem for you.
For I know that I can only ever sleep in your arms. My sweet gabrielle.
My belle.
Purest of the angels.
Thus it so happens that I find that I have written a poem for you.
It is meaningless, it is negligible.
But it is only so because I am gullible.
And where others would find imperfection. I can only see detail.
For perfection without imperfection I find banal.
Thus it is that I tell myself that I have written a poem for you.
