To You

It hurts to care for one more than thyself,
For much is at stake, far more than the self,
Yet to care deeply and true for someone,
Would be so much better than all things done.

‘Tis truly such pain to endure the blows,
That bend the iron will and break the soul.
Yet to brave such pain is such sweet reward,
Though there be no promise, though it be hard.

Whenever my eyes meet yours in a room,
Filled with uncaring faces that loom,
Memories of times past I reminisce,
Moments of dear solitude that I miss.

Such virtue draws me to thy fond embrace,
That strengthens the feeble heart through the days,
Such love makes me powerful in men’s eyes,
Yet the secret behind is you, I rise!

Your knight in shining armor I am not.
Nor a prince, of which power is his lot,
Nor a king to be respected with fear,
All these great men I am not, my dear.

I am but a pauper to thy sweet love,
Nothing, but all that I am and my love,
For which I am prepared to die and fight,
Your poet, of your love shall ever write.

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    For people who love to think.

    Jian Carlo R. Narag, MD

    2005-2017

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