Will streams upon my cheeks that flow,
Ever cease to spring for the other half of my old soul?
Tumbling, falling from windows through which I peer.
These droplets of my spirit, rain for her who is not near.
The salt of these,
could fill the Dead Sea.
A storm of misery to whip its waves,
Frothed by winds of torment
For her I break, yes I man lament.
To her my heart I surely gave.
Swept from vessel into waters I have myself wept,
Into darkness for her I would have leapt.
Crushed by storm of my design,
For her, my life I would resign.
Better me to drown beneath the mirror of the ocean cried,
Than to live another hour without her who without, I begged to die.
-Denny Ducet