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!
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