I write these lines beneath the sting of tears

Peine forte et dure weighs upon my breast;

Scant hope remains, within these gnawing fears—

An agony that only death may rest.

You chose to leave, and left me here alone,

As winter’s pallor veiled the ashen sky

While chimney smoke bowed low to winds that moan

In solemn deference to forsaken cries.

For what remains when Heaven’s light is gone,

When stricken prayers beseech stern ears of stone?

The tarot ten of swords here rudely drawn,

And I lie prostrate, on misfortune thrown.

A prisoner bound, condemned to meet my death—

Yet still your servant to my final breath.