Of her, a vision, then my own tale spun,
Of her, a vision, and my tale begun.
He, the confidante, now the rival stands,
The trusted secret, clutched in hostile hands.
A height attained, a scene we could devise,
If from the heavens, our dwelling could arise.
How long this heart-ache, this blood I've bled,
I'd show them now, these wounds upon my head.
My fingers scarred, my pen a crimson stain,
My words, a lament, a fountain of pain.
What wisdom held, in what art did I bloom?
Without cause, my heaven, a darkened doom.
Without cause, my heaven, a darkened doom.
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