Love is sorrow, it is grief,
For what drives a man to his grave?
Lingering are his passions,
to pursue, to slave over, to save.
Love is sorrow, it is pain,
For what else would he gain?
Thunderous sounds surround,
And like hail they fall on him.
Love is sorrow, it is banal,
For what does he hold sway?
Through mud and sand and soil,
He holds fast in this place.
Love is sorrow, it is plain,
For what has he left but his beau?
In distant land far forgotten,
His sword closer to him than her.
Love is sorrow, it is grief,
For what holds a man from his reprieve?
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