Who am I but to be loved,
the lost forgotten endless sea,
the branch that grew in season’s start
that now lies dead among the leaves?
Am I a dream that comes to pass
behind your waking eyes one morn,
or just a nightmare of the winds
that balter as the winter’s born?
A vagrant wanderer am I,
the sun that needs a place to set,
but cometh is the dreadnaught rain
to leave me grieve, my face so wet.
Fie not on me, elucidator
say only what must I shall do,
and I will act accordingly
to tame this feral heart for you.
The echoes are stentorian
reverberating fiercely of
the question I ask candidly,
oh, who am I but to be loved?