Conflict of Heart
What love demands so high a cost
That this winged troubador wandering wide
Finds no rest, nor precious paradise lost
In cool valley or sunny mountain side
The miles grow longer each empty day
But flowers few are suddenly gone away
And fickle females finds them fresh
And littered in their rooms and brazen arms
Cuddled against fragile desire of flesh
Vanity matches with their fleetive charms
O yet it is allergy season, these will in decay
Define our human reason to the honey bee dismay
Where have all the flowers gone is not a song
It is a complaint against the killing of trees
And the barren earth where once rose bush throngs
It is love of self that robbed the mumbling bees
Spoil the troubadours song, and saddens day
The flowers are gone and no butterflies play
Let lovers give themselves as true and only gifts
And heal the broken hearts that bitter on lips
Wail the callous countless cluster of human rifts
The bitter wine that sweet love often sips
Love is the gift of self, let flowers freely stay
And the honey troubadors sing their songs all May.
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