My Seasone of Love you are
Everyday you leave me weak
While you drain me off myself
'Till you give me what I seek!

If I brought you a sickle,
An item you might need,
Would you harvest my feeling,
And blossom my thrill,
Or scorn my longing
Afore you move in for the kill?

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Severin, in the year 108 MA.