From one hand come sweet bouquets,
oaths to that which blooms between
two who cannot tear their gaze
away from whom their heart has seen.

From the other comes a blade,
slipped between the ribs to take
away the heart she freely gave
to the love she learned was fake.

With one face, he lays a kiss
upon the brow of one he chose
to gift unto a balmy bliss -
petals strip'ed from the rose.

With the other does he sing
aubades to lovers newly woke;
from old hand he takes his ring
to give to his new love bespoke.

The rumours show that's how it goes,
a contradiction evergreen:
the lover who hands out his rose
is the bastard libertine.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Scarlatan, in the year 1000 AF.