In Paris lies a lady richly left
and richly thus pursued
by others, although by me
in poor time richly met.
Had I had but the means
or the time to show her
how I felt and feel, I would have,
for she’s fairer than the very word.
My Venera, though not mine,
wine flavored lips,
silk touched skin.
In Paris lies a life swiftly slain,
a dream promptly ended,
a flickering hope snuffed.
I miss her deeply, and Paris.
Libreta Roja 