Not much is said through my words,

little is known, but much is experienced
truth be told, I want to sing a song for you,
beauty is all you are, beauty is all that is lost
in this Midnight Age, you are the torturer of my soul...
my best friend, my closest ally, my everything...
however, never... never has a time been right.

Perhaps one day, my muse, you can return the fervent layers of prose
upon me again. Until then, I am lost.

Olorin

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Midsummer, in the year 212 MA.