As passion flows into this silent ink

Etched deep on parchment, sentiments confined.

Where cursive strokes through faithful passions link

Sweet musings of the heart to thoughts in mind;

So may such truth here rendered bless this verse

That years from now these lines I may still read,

And in reciting, memories rehearse…

The mystic gardens where true love stays green.

If not transcribed, what ledger could I keep

When recollection stands but sure to fail?

In memory’s vault, false visions often creep,

For Time corrupts, to wear truth thin and frail.

Yet ardor, poorly inked by loving hand—

Still bests the finest ever writ in sand.