She reigns my love from a land afar,
This feeling in my chest is not whole but ajar.
It’s feeling is love, the slow innocent mule,
It’s feeling is pain, the lone raging bull.
The days do smolder like a fresh scented wick,
Some glow, some smoke, but all burn thick.
When I hear her voice often, I miss her much less,
When I hear her no more, my mind becomes a mess.
The wick has now aged, almost to its feet,
This entire length burnt, we have felt the heat.
It’s time for the flame to part with its light,
I’ll be back home my dear, to kiss you goodnight.