As thorns and ink in blood are dove,
The purest red of blooming rose;
For you alone, my dearest love.

Whitest parchment, pure winged dove –
My colored hands shall force enclose
As thorns and ink in blood are dove.

My blessed gift sent from above –
Drip black and red from pen to prose;
For you alone, my dearest love.

My hands, they tremble, my mind is drove
To boundless highs and deepest lows
As thorns and ink in blood are dove.

Watch each finger move in each glove
And draw fresh blood from blackened rose
For you alone, my dearest love.

Yet time pains – so escapes the dove,
As reddened eyes black lids now close;
As thorns and ink in blood are dove
For you alone, my dearest love.