What black-robed wraith his hardened gavel struck,
Condemning us in darkest courts of hate
Where this our blissful love is titled luck,
And luck abandoned for unrivalled fate.
The shoot that heaves its heavy earthen lid
Seeks heaven’s rays to kiss its conqu’ring brow;
And shadows that keep well this blossom hid
Shall not bode death but graceful height endow.
And Shakespeare’s tales of love forbidden wane
Equated to the stifled truth we live,
For fiction does our secret strife profane:
To love, to hide, to hate, or to forgive?
But you and I, my dear, choose deepest cell,
For life and love and us do we rebel.