[Terra's paper is smudged with many erasings and scribbled notes on the side. He worked hard on this, clearly.]
I've never really written a poem before. I hope I did it right.
I felt the summer sun upon my face; It filled my tired veins with liquid gold. At night the moon hung gentle in its place As stars about it echoed songs of old. The sky is hollow here, it does not sing As once it did in worlds now lost to me. I only hear them in remembering; The dark enfolds the moon-road on the sea. Foreign sun, take pity on my plight: Make me forget the silent empty night.
[It was going to be a sonnet, but he ran out of time. He kind of wishes he'd chosen something shorter.]
no subject
I've never really written a poem before. I hope I did it right.
I felt the summer sun upon my face;
It filled my tired veins with liquid gold.
At night the moon hung gentle in its place
As stars about it echoed songs of old.
The sky is hollow here, it does not sing
As once it did in worlds now lost to me.
I only hear them in remembering;
The dark enfolds the moon-road on the sea.
Foreign sun, take pity on my plight:
Make me forget the silent empty night.
[It was going to be a sonnet, but he ran out of time. He kind of wishes he'd chosen something shorter.]