The Ill Fated Winds of Star-Crossed Lovers
Upon the wind today,
I did hear.
A news that I myself,
Cannot utter here.
It told of tragedy,
Sorrow and misery.
The ending of a life,
Of one of most pure to heart.
Of beauty unsurpassed,
By any mortal here.
Such that the lord god himself,
Blessed her as an angel.
That the angels cried upon her birth,
For they held her as one of them.
She be the only Juliet,
The one I hold most dear.
For she be the only one for Romeo,
Indeed, that is me.
Never shall I set eyes upon another,
If it not be my sweet Juliet.
But today those winds did bring,
A message unexpected,
But a message nonetheless.
‘Twas not the announcement,
That all did do expect.
That she be wed to the count,
Paris be his name.
Though by the Friar’s words,
With power invested in him,
By the holy and divine spirit.
We did wed by moonlight,
Of the night that ran away,
With the knowledge of no one,
For such be the fools of the two warring houses,
That be mine of Montague,
And of sweet Juliet’s of Capulet.
But such news,
It sounds most sweet.
If compared against,
What ill winds to bring.
The world it mourns,
At the passing of dear Juliet.
Upon her very bed.
The bed we did consummate,
The union of man and wife.
A bed we most dearly loved.
The birds,
They no longer sing a happy tune.
Replaced instead by tunes of sorrow,
That few could surpass in play,
Until the coming of the lord.
Words cannot describe,
The pain that courses through this being.
But I think of the scene laid before the Capulet’s,
When they walked into sweet Juliet’s chamber,
That lies within the House of Capulet.
Of the grief that must ripple through,
After the lead up to such an event.
I see the count himself,
Standing by her bed.
Moments before,
Ready to claim his bride.
Now a much different look,
Lies etched upon his face.
A look which shows a helpless small child,
That knows not what he should do.
The lady of the manor,
Be mourning with the maid.
Their sobs and cries do set the scene,
Describing the horror that it is,
Through the indescribable sobs that they make.
The lord of the house,
A man of strong persuasion.
Once noble, strong and harsh at times,
Is brought down to his knees.
An emotion scribed upon his face,
That none can understand.
Yet there is the roselike Juliet,
Who be pale as a ghost,
And as white as the pure sheets,
That wrap her dearly now.
She could be almost sleeping,
If not for the distinct absence,
Of the rise and fall of her bosom.
Sweet Juliet be dead,
That is all know.
I weep, I sob, I cry,
For the loss of my lovely wife.
She be taken to the vault,
That all of Capulet must go.
And that is where I shall journey,
To see my wedded wife.
Ashes to ashes,
Such it must be.
There I shall join my wife.
With the help of a vial,
Of the most perilous potion,
The alchemist will give.
There I too,
Will lie with her,
And join her to see father.
So Juliet,
Please wait for me.
Your dear Romeo,
Will come with you too.
So we shall spend all of days,
Within each others arms.
With no more pain,
No more sorrow,
And nothing will tear us apart.
For such is my love for you,
And such is your love for me.
That I will follow you,
To wherever you shall go.
Be it for good,
Or be it for ill.
For every day is a blessed day,
When Romeo has his Juliet.
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