Langue D'Oc, a Micro-Paradelle

Your love song lapsed into ancient French that April day. I only understood the words of spring and heartsore lapsed. Only love and heartsore, I understood your ancient words of the spring-day song into that French April. You fabricate my pauses into repetition, silence speaks of ages strung to rhyme in love’s difficult service you strung into pauses in service to ages. Fabricate of love’s repetition, rhyme speaks my difficult silence. We practice tedium of vows till language breaks apart. As if art should aim at science, rigorous, quantitative, rigorous language breaks tedium. Science vows a part of quantitative practice till we should aim “as if” at art. Till we lapsed into language. As your ancient ages only fabricate quantitative French strung to that difficult practice, science speaks of tedium and understood rhyme. The spring in service of love’s rigorous vows. April pauses, heartsore. You and I, apart. If love should aim my words at day, repetition breaks into silence of song.