Bast

A foundling's spurn, like fate's adjourn that fills its being, with return of life - thy will, be Godly yearn, nor destitute, like drafting, stern. To understand more, than to learn some righteous band, but then not turn to righteousness, in loving's earn, compassion's carry over, serve. I loved you, to embrace some nerve that carried your fond need, your verve, as helping, left some filled reserve toward aptitude, thy time conserve. Within you, but as faith, your own as when a prayer but asks condone and greets its answer, then alone, I asked to love you, but unknown. The bast that prologues at my name to gather momentary strove, would surely hold not fair acclaim, and surely bear not, at my love!