Of all the roles I have had to play,
My favourite was, his woman.
To be the softness that was the core of his heart,
To be the shore upon which he was the wave,
To be the comrade in arms in his battles,
To be the humour of his darkest days,
To be the hand that sought his in comfort,
To be the body that he utterly possessed,
To be the soul of the poem he wanted to write,
To be the tears he could not weep.
For the wars and the bloodshed were relentless,
And the end was nowhere in sight,
But in my arms and soft songs, he could rest,
In my dreams, he could take flight.
It is an art to love one who wants loving,
Than a love who wants to be rescued.
It is a dream to be loved by a man with a mission.
It is an infinite sorrow for the dream to end.
Yet honour is short in supply,
And for honour, he left my side.
But for love, he made no excuses,
And for love, would have made me his bride.