Tears make poor ink they blotch upon paper
Flowing from the eye, besmirching the lines
Swordsmen cries not brandishing rapier
He grieves not in fray, refusing to pine
Mine pen taps the well…unceasing sorrow
Drawn up from the heart, the words appear smeared
Warrior I’m not, mere wordsmith on morrow
Shortcomings many, when soul has been seared
Lamenting am I, the sickness of friend
The wish to affix cure, lone desire
If only weeping, were means to an end
Drops from mine eyes would extinguish ill fire
The ink well runs dry, yet never the tears
Lugubrious pen, scribbling my fears
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