My dearest beloved who hides without a sound
prince to me though thou's ne'r been crowned.
Mere illusion or lovesick wench's illness
Enclose this curse with but a simple kiss
that I may know that you do truely exist
outside of the magic that tales consists.

Do you breathe as a true mortal breathes,
A promise for love til Death's release?
How can I make thee dance in the sun
rather then watch you turn tail and run.
Are you a dream, a vision, a ghost?
Then love me clearly as one is suppos't.

Selerin Keyte-Wildfang


Penned by my hand on the 10th of Valnuary, in the year 358 AF.